9&ScL 
1898 


• 


UC-I IRLF 


B    3    S5D    in 


READINGS  AND  SCENES 

FROM 

pAVID  COPPERFIELD 


SIXTEEN  READINGS  AND  TWELVE  SCENES 
FOR  TWELVE  GIRLS 

By 

James  Ella  Selman 


\i 


Price,  25  Cents 


NEW  YORK 

EDGAR  S.  WERNER 
J898 


Copyright,  1896,  by  James  Ella  Selman 


Monologues,  Plays,  Drills,  Entertainments. 


THE  VAGABOND  PRINCE.  By  ED.  L. 
McDowell.  This  love  and  tragedy  mon- 
ologue for  a  man  is  designed  as  a 
companion  piece  to  "Zingarella,  the 
Gypsy  Flower  Girl"  (monologue  for  a 
woman,  15  cts.).  Effective  with  gypsy 
costume,  and  tambourine.    Price,  20  cts. 

THE  DEATH  DREAM.  By  LIVINGSTON 
Russell.  Intensely  dramatic  monologue 
for  a  man,  from  the  play  of  "  The  Bells," 
played  by  Henry  Irving.  Five  full-page 
Illustrations.  Full  business.  Price,  25  cts. 

WHERE  THE  LILIES  BLOOM.  By  H.  L. 
PiNER.  Pathetic  temperance  monologue 
for  a  man,  who  Is  restored  to  wife  by  a 
song.  Opportunity  to  sing,  with  guitar  ac- 
companiment. Music  given.  Price.  15  cts. 

CHRISTOPHER  COLUMBUS.  Recited  by 
Salvini.  Monologue  for  a  man.  Colum- 
bus reviews  his  wonderful  career,  begin- 
ning, "Forlorn,  alone  and  old— I  die,"  and 
ending,  "I  die  content.  Columbus  will  be 
"'  nown  in  every  clime."  Very  effective, 
especially  if  recited  in  costume.  With 
this  come  15  other  pieces.    Price,  25  cts. 

ENGAGED.  By  Livingston  Russell.  Ro- 
mantic, humorous  monologue  for  a 
woman.  Companion  piece  to  "Cupid's 
Victim"  (monologue  for  a  man,  20  cents). 
A  young  woman  who  ha^  just  become 
engaged  calls  her  departing  lover  back 
several  times,  and  then  falls  into  a  gush- 
ing and  hysterical  reverie.  She  sorts 
over  her  love  letters,  plans  how  their 
room  will  be  arranged,  and  runs  off 
stage  singing  the  Lohengrin  Wedding 
March.  Full  business  given.  Price,  20  cts. 

PLAYING  THE  SOCIETY  BELLE.  By 
Bertha  M.  Wilson.  Comedy  monologue 
for  a  woman.  Much  of  the  fun  arises 
from  a  dog  running  off  with  her  slipper 
that  she  takes  off  at  a  ball  to  rest  her 
foot.  One  of  the  characters  assumed  is 
that  of  a  "wild,  woolly  Western  girl." 
Full  directions.    Price,  15  cents. 

THE  DOOR  IS  LOCKED.  Trans,  and  Arr. 
by  Ada  Webster  Ward.  Comedy  mono- 
logue for  a  woman.  A  wife,  working 
herself  into  a  fit  of  jealousy  over  the 
absence  of  her  husband,  locks  the  door 
and  throws  away  the  key  She  keeps 
him  standing  outside,  scolding  him,  until 
she  learns  that  he  has  been  fighting  a 
duel  for  her  sake.  Then  she  eagerly  hunts 
for  the  key.  Full  business.  Price,  15  cts. 

THE  SILVER  DOLLAR.  By  Charles 
Barnard,  a  romantic,  temperance  mon- 
ologue for  a  woman,  bringing  in  five 
characters.  Mr.  Barnard,  the  success- 
ful dramatist,  has  originated  a  new 
monologue,  this  being  his  latest.  Suited 
to  temperance,  religious  and  other  occa- 
sions.   Full  business.    Price,  25  cents. 

WHEN  JACK  COMES  LATE.  By  Helen 
C.  Bergen.   A  comedy  monologue  for  a 


woman.  A  young  lady  indulges  in  vari- 
ous kinds  of  emotions  while  impatiently 
awaiting  the  coming  of  her  lover.  Op- 
Dortunity  for  banjo  work.    Price,  15  cts. 

MAYPOLE  EXERCISES.  By  A.  ALEX- 
ANDER. For  outdoor  and  indoor  use, 
with  musical  accompaniment  and  illus- 
trations.   Price,  25  cents. 

GUN  DRILL.  By  A.  Alexander  With 
musical  accompaniment  and  illustra- 
tions.   Price,  20  cents. 

COLUMBIA'S  FLORAL  EMBLEM.  By 
Ella  Sterling  Cummins.  A  play  for 
floral  festivals  and  public  school  enter- 
tainments for  the  purpose  of  awakening 
an  interest  in  choosing  a  national  floral 
emblem  for  this  country.    Price,  25  cts. 

AND  ALL  ABOUT  NOTHING.  By  Gar- 
rett W.  Owens,  a  comedy  drama  in 
one  act  for  three  men  and  four  women. 
Costume  and  scenery  described  and  full 
business  given.    Price,  25  cents. 

MAYANNI.  By  Anne  Henley.  A  fairy 
play  for  children,  either  indoor  or  out- 
door; ten  characters  for  boys  and  girls, 
or  for  girls  only.    Price,  15 cents. 

CHRISTMAS  BELL  DRILL.  By  LiLY 
HoFFNER  Wood.  Suitable  for  Christmas 
time  and  other  occasions.  For  12  girls. 
Fully  described;  illustrated.  Price,15cis 

SCARF  DRILL.  By  A.  ALEXANDER.  Mu 
sical  accompaniment  and  30  illustra 
tions.  A  unique  and  easily  produced 
entertainment.    Price,  25  cents. 

THE  SHADES  OF  SHAKESPEARE'S 
WOMEN.  By  A.  Laurie  West.  Brings 
in  Ariel,  Portia,  Juliet,  Katharine  (the 
Shrew),  Lady  Macbeth,  Miranda,  Desde- 
mona,  Cornelia,  Ophelia,  Witches.  Cos- 
tumes described  and  business  given. 
Price,  25  cents. 

THE  BLIND  GIRL  OF  CASTEL-CUILLE. 
Poem  by  Longfellow.  Illustrated  tab- 
leaux, with  musical  accompaniment,  by 
Marguerite  W.  Morton.  A  most  charm- 
ing romantic,  pathetic  entertainment. 
Tableaux  minutely  described  and  all  the 
music  given.    Price,  25  cents. 

COLUMBIA.  By  Mrs.  Belle  T.  Speed.  A 
drama  bringing  in  a  queen,  16  girls  rep- 
resenting principles  of  the  Republic,  6 
girls  the  navy,  and  six  girls  the  army. 
Patriotic  and  poetic  dialogue,  and  a 
concerted  piece.  Directions  for  cos- 
tumes and  evolutions.     Price,  25  cents 

COMEDY  OF  THE  QUEENS.  By  JENNIE 
P.  Buford.  a  one-act  play  for  school 
commencements,  church  entertain- 
ments. Characters:  Titania,  Eve,  Isa- 
bella of  Castile,  Pocahontas,  Queen  Eliz- 
abeth, Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  Christine 
of  Sweden,  Bathsh-^ba,  Empress  Joseph- 
ine, Cleopatra,  Queen  of  Sheba,  and 
Queen  Victoria.    Price,  25  cents. 


Cldear  S.  l¥erner.  Publisher,  1^8  East  16tb  Street,  New  York* 


CHARACTERS.  \  %^%^ 

David  Copperfield. 

Master  Micawber. 

Mrs.  Copperfield,  David's  mother. 

Peggotty,  David's  nurse. 

Mrs.  Gummidge. 

Little  Em'ly. 

Mrs.  Micawber. 

Miss  Micawber. 

Betsey  Trotwood. 

Janet,  her  maid. 

Dora  Spenlow. 

Agnes  Wickfield. 


INTRODUCTION. 

This  arrangement  of  Dickens's  favorite  novel,  "  David  Copper- 
field,"  is  the  outgrowth  of  a  deeply-felt  need,  that  the  public 
exercises  of  our  schools  should  combine  the  elements  of  true 
literary  and  popular  taste.  Good  literary  taste  is  essential  for 
the  culture  of  the  pupils  themselves,  for  the  entertainment  of  the 
cultured  friends  of  the  institution,  and  for  the  instruction  of  the 
uneducated.  But  popular  taste  should  not  be  disregarded,  as  it 
often  happens  that  in  deep  sympathy  with  the  joys  and  sorrows 
of  humanity  lies  not  only  much  of  the  success  of  the  entertain- 
ment, but  also  much  of  the  culture  to  the  pupil.  Heart-culture 
must  go  hand  in  hand  with  head-culture  in  true  expression-work. 

It  is  believed  that  "David  Copperfield"  combines  perfectly 
these  elements  of  literature  and  popularity. 

The  presentation  of  this  arrangement  by  my  pupils  was  re- 
ceived with  such  overwhelming  praise  and  commendation  that  I 
feel  assured  that  it  will  be  welcomed  by  many  teachers. 

It  is  arranged  to  be  presented  by  girls  alone,  and  requires  one 
hour  and  forty-five  minutes  for  presentation. 


STAGE  DIRECTIONS. 

If  presented  on  stage  with  drop-cnrtain,  the  reciter  should 
stand  before  the  curtain,  in  order  that  the  stage-setting  may  be 
changed  for  the  different  scenes  without  loss  of  time.  The 
scenes  are  so  arranged  that  there  need  not  be  a  minute  of  waiting 
throughout  the  program. 

A  long  stage  may  be  made  very  attractive  by  furnishing  two- 
thirds  of  it  as  a  reader's  stage  and  enclosing  the  other  third,  by 
means  of  curtains,  for  the  acting.  Indeed,  this  is  the  preferable 
arrangement,  as  the  readings  make  up  the  body  of  the  entertain- 
ment, and  the  scenes  serve  mainly  to  brighten  and  relieve  the 
program. 

As  a  support  for  the  curtain  which  divides  the  stage,  stretch 
a  wire  from  the  front-curtain  wire  to  a  screw  at  the  back  of  the 
stage.  The  curtains  should  be  closed  while  the  readers  are  telling 
the  story,  and  promptly  drawn  open  at  the  tap  of  a  bell  by  the 
teacher  or  director,  who  sits  behind  a  screen  at  the  opposite  side 
of  the  stage,  to  prompt  the  reader  if  such  necessity  should  arise, 
and  to  tap  the  bell  for  the  drawing  of  the  curtains  at  the  begin- 
ning and  the  end  of  scenes. 

The  reader's  stage  may  be  decorated  by  a  tasteful  arrangement 
of  rugs,  chairs,  tables,  lamps,  and  palms,  or  other  floral  decora- 
tions. 

If  the  right  hand  side  of  the  stage  be  curtained  off,  the  readers 
enter  from  the  left,  and  if  the  reading  be  interrupted  by  a  scene, 
the  reader  retires  to  a  settee  at  the  left  and  back  of  the  stage, 
and  remains  seated  until  bell  taps  for  curtains  to  be  closed,  when 
the  reader  advances  and  resumes  the  reading. 

Other  directions  will  be  given  when  needed,    - 


COSTUMES. 

David  Copperfield,  a  little  girl  (or  boy)  of  about  ten  years 
of  age,  very  slender  and  precocious,  with  demure  looks  and  ac- 
tions. He  wears  knee  trousers,  ruffled  shirt  of  white  muslin,  vest 
of  any  color  preferred,  and  an  old-fashioned,  long- tailed  coat. 
Ruffles  of  white  lace  should  be  worn  in  the  sleeves  and  at  the 
knees. 

Mrs.  Copperfield,  a  very  pretty  girl  who  may  even  be  con- 
scious of  her  beauty.  She  should  be  small  and  girlish.  Her  hair 
is  caught  high  with  a  tucking  comb,  while  three  or  four  precise 
curls  fall  to  her  shoulders.  Her  gown  is  a  pretty,  simple  muslin 
with  a  long  fichu  about  the  neck. 

Peggotty  should  be  large  and  stiff,  and  she  must  not  despise 
the  aid  of  pads  and  a  bustle  in  her  make-up.  She  wears  a  serv- 
ant's cap,  a  short  frock  of  red  or  some  other  bright  color,  white 
apron,  neckerchief,  and  heavy  shoes.     Her  manner  is  confident. 

Mrs.  Gummidge  should  be  indeed  a  "lone  lorn  creetur."  A 
slight  girl  of  melancholy  features  will  take  the  part  well,  but 
above  all  things  she  must  be  Mrs.  Gummidge.  She  wears  her 
hair  powdered,  a  black  cap  with  a  bit  of  white  lace  next  the  face, 
a  short  black  frock,  white  apron,  white  neckerchief  with  black 
border,  and  heavy  shoes. 

Little  Em'ly,  a  girl  of  ten  with  light  hair.  She  wears  a  plain 
and  faded  calico  dress  and  old  shoes. 

Mrs.  Mic awber,  a  ' '  thin  and  faded  lady  "  with  powdered  hair 
and  a  careworn  expression.  She  wears  a  plain  calico  or  home- 
spun dress,  and  a  white  apron.  Her  bearing  should  be  that  of 
one  almost  crushed  by  misfortune,  but  who  still  keeps  her  family 
pride.  She  carries  .the  twins  in  her  arms.  These  are  made-up 
babies  dressed  in  long  skirts  and  little  caps. 


6  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

g^LiTTLE  Miss  Micawber  and  Master  Micawber  may  be  im- 
personated by  any  little  children  from  three  to  five  years  of  age. 
They  should  be  dressed  shabbily.  They  have  no  speaking  to  do, 
but  add  much  to  the  effect  of  the  Micawber  home,  and  are  useful 
for  holding  the  babies  when  Mrs.  Micawber  wishes  it. 

Betsey  Trotwood  is  tall  and  angular,  abrupt  in  manner.  Her 
hair  is  powdered,  she  wears  a  lace  cap,  and  in  all  scenes  except 
the  first  in  which  she  appears,  she  wears  spectacles.  Her  gown 
is  of  lavender  color,  made  with  plain,  full  skirt  and  long  basque 
and  finished  at  neck  and  sleeves  with  black  lace.  She  may  wear 
a  fan  or  a  small  black  bag  suspended  by  a  ribbon  from  the 
waist. 

Janet  wears  a  plain  shirt-waist  and  skirt,  with  white  apron 
and  servant's  cap. 

Dora  Spen^low  is  a  plump  pretty  girl,  with  sparkling  eyes 
and  happy  face.  She  has  been  greatly  spoiled  and  petted.  She 
wears  a  sheer  blue  lawn,  made  becomingly.  Of  course,  Dora  would 
not  be  Dora  without  Jip.  There  will  be  found  in  every  com- 
munity a  playful,  submissive  little  dog  to  take  the  part  of  Jip. 

Agnes  Wickfield  is  larger  than  Dora  and  a  girl  of  much  sta- 
bility of  character.  Her  face  is  beautiful  with  the  reflection  of 
a  pure  and  noble  spirit  within.  She  has  an  ease  and  grace  of 
manner  which  wins  the  hearts  of  all,  and,  as  is  most  fitting  to 
her  purity  of  soul,  is  attired  in  simple  white. 

The  costuming  will  be  found  an  easy  matter.  The  few  articles 
that  have  to  be  purchased  can  be  found  in  iuexpensive  material. 

Much  discretion  should  be  used  in  the  selection  of  characters 
and  even  more,  I  might  say,  in  the  choice  of  readers.  The  read- 
ings are  of  varied  styles,  and  require  more  versatility  and  knowl- 
edge of  all  the  elements  of  expression,  than  do  the  impersonations. 
The  readings,  as  well  as  the  impersonations,  should  be  perfectly 
memorized,  so  that  there  will  be  no  necessity  for  prompting. 


u 
(( 


PROGRAM. 

1. — My  Earliest  Recollections Name  of  Reader. 

Scene  I.   The  Crocodile  Book. 
Scene  II.   A  Very  Pleasant  Evening. 
Scene  III.   The  Proposed  Visit. 
Scene  IV.   The  Boat  House. 
Scene  V.   My  First  Grief. 

2. — Miss  Murdstone's  Arrival Name  of  Reader. 

3. — My  Lessons  at  Home *' 

4.— Barkis  is  Willin' " 

5. — (a)  My  Reception  at  School 

Scene  VI.   Take  Care  of  Him ,  He  Bites, 
(b)  My  Mother's  Death 

6. — They  Were  Married 

7. — »In  the  Service  of  Mnrdstone  and  Grimby. . 

Scene  VIL   I    Never   Will   Desert   Mr. 
Micawber. 

Scene  VIII.   If  Yon  Please,  Aunt. 
8. — My  School-Days  at  Canterbury 

9.  — Dora  and  I  Were  Engaged 

Scene  IX.   What  Beautiful  Flowers! 
10. — My  Aunt's  Losses 

Scene  X.  How  It  Happened. 
11.— The  Cookery  Book 

12.  — I  Took  Agnes  to  See  Dora 

Scene  XI.   Their  Meeting. 

13. — Dora  and  I  Are  Married *' 

14. — Our  Housekeeping 


8  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

15. — My  Child-wife  is  Dead Name  of  Reader. 

Scene  XII.  Dora  and  My  Annt. 

16.— Agnes *' 

It  will  be  found  that  some  of  the  impersonations  are  very  short, 
and  in  such  cases  the  pupil  taking  the  part  may  be  assigned  a 
reading  also,  provided  the  reading  does  not  come  so  near  to  the 
impersonation  as  not  to  give  time  for  change  of  costume. 


DAVID    COPPERFIELD. 

1.  MY   EARLIEST   RECOLLECTIONS. 
Reading. 

Looking  back  into  the  blank  of  my  infancy,  the  first  objects  I 
can  remember,  as  standing  out  by  themselves,  are  my  mother  and 
Peggotty.  Peggotty  and  I  were  sitting  one  night  by  the  parlor 
fire  alone.  I  had  been  reading  to  Peggotty  about  crocodiles.  I 
was  tired  of  reading,  and  dead  sleepy;  but  having  leave  to  sit  up 
till  my  mother  came  home  from  spending  an  evening  at  a  neigh- 
bor's, I  would  rather  have  died  at  my  post  than  gone  to  bed.  I 
propped  my  eyelids  open  with  my  two  forefingers,  and  looked 
perseveringly  at  Peggotty,  as  she  sat  at  work. 

[  Bell  taps  and  Reader  retires  to  settee^  ivliile  the  curtains  are 
drawn  for  Scene  /.] 

Scene  I. — The  Crocodile  Booh. 

The  stage  is  set  as  "second-best  parlor,"  with  chairs,  rugs,  table, 
cabinet,  etc. ,  tastefully  arranged.  David  and  Peggotty  are  discovered 
near  the  front.  David  is  sitting  with  one  elbow  on  the  table,  where  a 
lamp  is  brightly  burning,  and  holds  the  crocodile  book  on  his  knees. 
Peggotty  is  sitting  near  by,  knitting  assiduously.  David  yawns  and 
stretches  himself  and  begins  the  conversation. 

David.   Peggotty,  were  you  ever  married  ? 

Peggotty  [^with  a  start  and  stopping  her  wor¥\.  Lord, 
Master  Davy  !     What's  put  marriage  in  your  head  ? 

David.  But  ivere  you  ever  married,  Peggotty  ?  You  are  a 
very  handsome  woman,  ain't  you  ? 

Peg.  [  shotui?ig  greater  surprise^.  Me  handsome,  Davy  ! 
Lawk,  no,  my  dear  !     But  what  put  marriage  in  your  head  ? 

David  [  stretching  and  yawning^ .  I  don't  know.  You 
mustn't  marry  more  than  one  person  at  a  time,  may  you,  Peggotty  ? 


10  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

Peg.   [  ivith  promptest  decision].     Certainly  not. 

David.  Bat  if  yoa  marry  a  person  and  that  person  dies,  why 
then  you  may  marry  another  person,  mayn't  you,  Peggotty  ? 

Peg.  Yon  may,  if  yon  choose,  my  dear.  That's  a  matter  of 
opinion. 

David.    But  what  is  your  opinion,  Peggotty  ? 

Peg.  [  suddenly  rising  and  speaking  with  much  emphasis']. 
My  opinion  is  that  I  never  was  married  myself.  Master  Davy, 
and  that  I  don't  expect  to  be.     That's  all  I  know  about  the  subject. 

David  [  looking  up  in  great  surprise].  You  ain't  cross,  I 
suppose,  Peggotty,  are  you  ? 

Peg.  [  throiving  arms  about  David  and  turning  over 
leaves  of  crocodile  look].  Lawk,  no,  my  dear.  Did  you 
think  your  old  Peggotty  could  be  cross  with  you  ?  Now  let  me 
hear  some  more  about  the  crorkindills,  for  I  ain't  heard  half 
enough. 

[  Bell  taps.,  curtains  close,  while  Reader  advances  and  con- 
tinues.] 

Readii^g. 

The  garden  bell  rang.  We  went  out  to  the  door,  and  there 
was  my  mother,  looking  unusually  pretty,  and  with  her  a  gentle- 
man with  beautiful  black  hair  and  whiskers,  who  had  walked 
home  with  us  from  church  last  Sunday.  As  my  mother  stooped 
down  on  the  threshold  to  take  me  in  her  arms  and  kiss  me,  the 
gentleman  said  I  was  a  more  highly-privileged  little  fellow  than 
a  monarch.  I  never  saw  such  a  beautiful  color  on  my  mother's 
face  before. 

"  Let  us  say  *  good  night,'  my  fine  boy,"   said  the  gentleman. 

"Goodnight!"  said  L 

"  Come  !  Let  us  be  the  best  friends  in  the  world  !  "  said  the 
gentleman,  laughing.      "Shake  hands." 

My  right  hand  was  in  my  mother's  left,  so  I  gave  him  the  other. 
My   mother  drew   my  right  hand  forward,  but  I   was  resolved 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  11 

not  to  give  it  him,  and  I  did  not.     I  gave  him  the  other,  and  he 
shook  it  heartily  and  said  I  was  a  brave  fellow,  and  went  away. 

Peggotty,  who  had  not  said  a  word  or  moved  a  finger,  secured 
the  fastenings  instantly,  and  we  all  went  into  the  parlor.  My 
mother,  instead  of  coming  to  the  elbow-chair  by  the  fire,  remained 
at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  and  sat  singing  to  herself. 

[Bell  taps ,  curtains  open,  luhile  Reader  retires.^ 

Scene  II. — A   Very  Pleasant  Evening. 

David  is  sitting  with  his  head  on  the  table,  asleep ;  Mrs.  Copperfield 
sits  apart  to  the  left  and  back  of  David  and  sings  softly  any  familiar 
love-song ;  Peggotty  stands  in  the  middle  of  the  room  to  the  right  and 
back  of  David,  holding  a  candle  in  her  hand  and  looking  as  "  stiff  as  a 
barrel.  " 

Peg.  Hope  you  have  had  a  pleasant  evening,  ma'am ! 

Mes.  Copperfield  [sloivly  returning  from  her  abstraction']. 
Much  obliged  to  you,  Peggotty,  I  have  had  a  very  pleasant  eve- 
ning. 

Peg.   a  stranger  or  so  makes  an  agreeable  change. 

Mrs.  0.   A  very  agreeable  change,  indeed. 

Peg.  [still  standing  motionless  in  middle  of  room,  and  em- 
pliasizing  her  speech  loith  her  candlestick].  Not  such  a  one  as 
this,  Mr.  Copperfield  wouldn't  have  liked !  That  I  say,  and  that 
I  swear! 

Mrs.  C.  [springing  up  and  speaking  angrily  and  tearfully]. 
Good  heavens!  You'll  drive  me  mad!  Was  ever  any  jDoor  girl 
so  ill  used  by  her  servants  as  I  am !  How  can  you  dare !  You 
know  I  don't  mean  how  can  you  dare,  Peggotty,  but  how  can  you 
have  the  heart — to  make  me  so  uncomfortable,  and  say  such  bit- 
ter things  to  me,  when  you  are  well  aware  that  I  haven't  out  of 
this  place  a  single  friend  to  turn  to. 

Peg.  [groiuing  more  vehement  and  stamping].  The  more's  the 
reason  for  saying  that  it  won't  do !  No !  That  it  won't  do !  No ! 
No  price  could  make  it  do !  No ! 


1^  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

Mrs.  0.  [grotus  hysterical.  Dayid  wakes  and  looks  in 
amazeinent  from  Ms  mother  to  Peggotty].  How  can  you  be  so 
aggravating  as  to  talk  in  such  an  unjust  manner!  How  can  yon 
go  on  as  if  it  was  all  settled  and  arranged,  Peggotty,  when  I  tell 
you  over  and  over  again,  you  cruel  thing,  that  beyond  the  com- 
monest civilities  nothing  has  passed.  You  talk  of  admiration. 
What  am  I  to  do?  If  people  are  so  silly  as  to  indulge  the  senti- 
ment, is  it  my  fault?  What  am  I  to  do,  I  ask  you?  Would  you 
wish  me  to  shave  my  head  and  black  my  face,  or  disfigure  myself 
with  a  burn,  or  a  scald,  or  something  of  that  sort?  I  dare  say 
you  would,  Peggotty.  I  dare  say  you'd  quite  enjoy  it.  [Peg- 
gotty is  greatly  affected^  and  sets  her  candle  on  table  to  dig  her 
fist  into  her  eyes  and  tveep  aloud.  Mrs.  CoppERFiELD^oes  to  David 
and  embraces  him  in  his  elbow-chair. 1  And,  my  dear  boy,  my  own 
little  Davy !  Is  it  to  be  hinted  to  me  that  I  am  wanting  in  affec- 
tion for  my  precious  treasure,  the  dearest  little  fellow  that  ever  was? 

Peg.  Nobody  never  went  and  hinted  no  such  thing. 

Mrs.  0.  [rising  and  speaking  with  energy  a7id  tear s^.  You  did, 
Peggotty!  You  know  you  did!  What  else  was  it  possible  to  in- 
fer from  what  you  said,  you  unkind  creature,  when  you  know  as 
well  as  I  do,  that  on  his  account  only  last  quarter  I  wouldn't  buy 
myself  a  new  parasol,  though  that  old  green  one  is  frayed  the 
whole  way  up,  and  the  fringe  is  perfectly  mangy.  You  know  it 
is,  Peggotty.  You  can't  deny  it.  [Kneeliiig  and  affectionately 
placing  cheek  against  David's,  luho  is  sobbi7ig pitifully.]  Am  I 
a  naughty  mamma  to  yon,  Davy?  Am  I  a  nasty,  cruel,  selfish, 
bad  mamma?  Say  I  am,  my  child;  say  "  yes,"  my  dear  boy,  and 
Peggotty  will  love  you,  and  Peggotty 's  love  is  a  great  deal  better 
than  mine,  Davy.     I  don't  love  you  at  all,  do  I? 

David  [shrieking].     Peggotty,  you  are  a  beast! 

[Peggotty  m  deep  affliction  kneels  in  front  of  Mrs.  Copper- 
field   a7id  David,  embracing  both  at   once,  a7id  mingling  her 
tears  with  theirs.] 
[Bell  taps,  and  Reader  advances  while  the  curtains  are  drawn.] 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  13 

Readin^g. 

We  went  to  bed  greatly  dejected.  My  sobs  kept  waking  me  for 
a  long  time,  and  when  one  very  strong  sob  quite  hoisted  me  up 
in  bed,  I  found  my  mother  sitting  on  the  coverlet,  and  leaning 
over  me.   I  fell  asleep  in  her  arms  after  that,  and  slept  soundly. 

Gradually  I  became  used  to  seeing  Mr.  Murdstone,  the  gentle- 
man with  the  black  whiskers.  I  liked  him  no  better  than  at  first, 
and  had  the  same  uneasy  jealousy  of  him. 

We  were  sitting  as  before,  one  evening  (when  my  mother  was 
out  as  before),  in  company  with  the  stocking  and  the  crocodile 
book,  when  Peggotty,  after  looking  at  me  several  times  and  open- 
ing her  mouth  as  if  she  were  going  to  speak  without  doing  it, 
said,  coaxingly. 

[Bell  taps,  curtains  open  and  Reader  retires.  ] 

Scene  III. — The  Proposed  Visit. 
Same  as  Scene  I. 

Peg.  Master  Davy,  how  should  you  like  to  go  along  with  me 
and  spend  a  fortnight  at  my  brother's  at  Yarmouth?  Wouldn't 
that  be  a  treat? 

David.  Is  your  brother  an  agreeable  man,  Peggotty? 

Peg.  Oh !  What  an  agreeable  man  he  is !  Then  there's  the 
sea,  and  the  boats  and  ships,  and  the  fishermen,  and  the  beach! 

Dayid.  It  would  indeed  be  a  treat.  But  what  would  my  mother 
say? 

Peg.  Why,  then  I'll  as  good  as  bet  a  guinea  that  she'll  let  us 
go.  I'll  ask  her  if  you  like  as  soon  as  ever  she  comes  home. 
There,  now! 

David.  But  what's  she  to  do  while  we  are  away?  She  can't  live 
by  herself,  you  know.  [Peggotty  looks  uneasy  and  does  not  re- 
ply, ]     I  say,  Peggotty,  she  can't  live  by  herself,  you  know. 

Peg.   Oh,  bless  you !     Don't  you  know?     She's  going  to  stay 


14  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

for  a  fortnight  with  Mrs.  Grrayper.   Mrs.  Grayper's  going  to  have 
a  lot  of  company. 

David.   Oh!     If  that  is  it,  I  am  quite  ready  to  go. 

[Bell  taps,  curtains  are  drawn,  and  Reader  comes  forward 
and  proceeds  with  story. '\ 

Keading. 

*' Yon's  our  house,  Master  Davy." 

'*  That's  not  it,"  said  I,  "that  ship-looking  thing!  " 

"That's  it,  Master  Davy." 

If  it  had  been  Aladdin's  palace,  I  suppose  I  could  not  have 
been  more  charmed  with  the  romantic  idea  of  living  in  it.  The 
wonderful  charm  was  that  it  was  a  real  boat,  which  had  no  doubt 
been  upon  the  water  hundreds  of  times  and  which  had  never  been 
intended  to  be  lived  in  on  dry  land. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty.  "You'll  find  us 
rough,  sir,  but  you'll  find  us  ready." 

I  thanked  him,  and  replied  that  I  was  sure  I  should  be  happy 
in  such  a  place. 

We  were  welcomed  by  a  very  civil  looking  woman  in  a  white 
apron.  I  soon  found  out  that  this  was  Mrs.  Gummidge,  and 
that  she  did  not  make  herself  so  agreeable  as  she  might  have  been 
expected  to  do,  under  the  circumstances  of  her  residence  with 
Mr.  Peggotty.  Then  there  was  a  beautiful  little  girl,  who 
wouldn't  let  me  kiss  her  when  I  offered  to,  but  ran  away  and  hid 
herself.  When  the  door  was  shut  and  all  was  made  snug,  it 
seemed  to  me  the  most  delicious  retreat  that  the  imagination  of 
man  could  conceive.  Little  Em'ly  had  overcome  her  shyness 
and  was  sitting  by  my  side. 

{Bell  taps,  Reader  retires,  cm'tains  open.] 

Scene  IV. — The  Boat  House. 

All  pictures  and  ornaments  are  removed,  and  the  room  is  compara- 
tively cheerless.  A  bare  table  is  in  the  centre,  with  candlestick  and 
work-basket  upon  it.    Fish-nets  are  hung  upon  the  walls,  and  a  pair  of 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  15 

oars  are  in  the  corner.  Two  plain,  splint-bottom  chairs  are  in  the 
room  at  each  side  of  the  table  and  a  little  back  of  it.  A  little  low 
bench  is  in  front  of  the  table,  and  somewhat  to  the  left.  Peggotty  is 
sitting  to  right  of  table,  knitting;  Mrs!  Gummidqe  to  left,  sewing; 
Little  Em'ly  and  David  on  bench,  playing  with  toy  ship. 

David.  You  are  quite  a  sailor,  I  suppose. 

Em'ly.   No.     I'm  afraid  of  the  sea. 

David  [^standing  ivith  iold  air\     Afraid!     I  ain't! 

Em'ly.  Ah!  but  it's  cruel.  I  have  seen  it  very  cruel  to  some 
of  our  men.  I  have  seen  it  tear  a  boat  as  big  as  our  house  all  to 
pieces. 

David.  I  hope  it  wasn't  the  boat  that — [resuming  seat\ 

Em'ly.  That  my  father  was  drowned  in  ?  No.  Not  that  one. 
1  never  see  that  boat. 

David.  My  father  is  dead,  too,  and  my  mother  and  I  have 
always  lived  by  ourselves. 

Em'ly.  Your  father  was  a  gentleman  and  your  mother  is  a 
lady ;  and  my  father  was  a  fisherman  and  my  mother  was  a  fisher- 
man's daughter,  and  my  Uncle  Dan  is  a  fisherman. 

David.  He  must  be  very  good,  I  should  think. 

Em'ly.  Good  ?  If  I  was  ever  to  be  a  lady,  I'd  give  him  a  sky- 
blue  coat  with  diamond  buttons,  a  large  gold  watch,  a  silver  pipe, 
and  a  box  of  money. 

David.  You  would  like  to  be  a  lady  ? 

Em'ly  [noddi7ig'\.  Yes.  I  should  lika  it  very  much.  We 
would  all  be  gentlefolks  together,  then.  Me,  and  my  uncle,  and 
Mrs.  Gummidge.  We  wouldn't  mind,  then,  when  there  come 
stormy  weather.  Not  for  our  own  sakes,  I  mean.  We  would 
for  the  poor  fishermen's,  and  we'd  help  'em  with  money  when 
they  come  to  any  hurt. 

[The  children  contimie  their  play.  ~\ 
Mrs.  Gummidge.   I  am  a  lone  lorn  creetur  and   every  think 
goes  contrairy  with  me.     It's  so  cold  it  gives  me  the  creeps. 
Peg.  It  is  certainly  very  cold.     Everybody  must  feel  it. 
Mrs.  G.   [more petulantly'].     I  feel  it  more  than  other  people. 


16  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

Yes,  yes.  I  know  what  I  am.  I  know  that  I  am  a  lone  lorn 
creetur,  and  not  only  that  everythink  goes  contrairy  with  me, 
but  that  I  go  contrairy  with  everybody.  Yes,  yes.  I  feel  more 
than  other  people  do,  and  I  show  it  more.     It's  my  misfortune. 

Peg.  Mrs.  Gummidge,  you  must  try  to  cheer  np  and  not  think 
about  your  troubles. 

Mks.  G.  [ivith  much  ominous  liead-shaking  and  weeping\  I 
ain't  what  I  could  wish  myself  to  be.  I  am  far  from  it.  I  know 
what  I  am.  My  troubles  has  made  me  contrairy.  I  feel  my 
troubles  and  they  make  me  contrairy.  I  wish  I  didn't  feel  'em, 
but  I  do.  I  wish  I  could  be  hardened  to  'em,  but  I  ain't.  I 
make  the  house  uncomfortable.  I  don't  wonder  at  it.  I've 
made  you  so  all  day,  and  Master  Davy. 

David  [who  has  ieen  listening  in  sympathetic  amazement^  on 
hearing  his  name^  rushes  up  to  Mrs.  Gummidge].  No,  you 
haven't,  Mrs.  Gummidge! 

Mrs.  G.  It's  far  from  right  that  I  should  do  it.  It  ain't  a  fit 
return.  I  had  better  go  into  the  house  and  die.  [  Getting  up 
very  much  overcome.  ]  I  am  a  lone  lorn  creetur,  and  had  much 
better  not  make  myself  contrairy  here.  If  thinks  must  go  con- 
trairy with  me,  and  I  must  go  contrairy  myself,  let  me  go  con- 
trairy in  my  parish.  I'd  better  go  into  the  house  and  die  a-nd  be 
a  riddance.  [  Walking  petulantly  across  floor ^  as  if  to  leave  ly 
right  hand  door.  ] 

Peg.   [shaking  head].     She's  been  thinking  o'  the  Old  Un. 

[Bell  taps^  curtains  are  drawn,  and  Header  goes  on  with  the 
story.  ] 

Reading. 

The  day  came  for  going  home.  I  bore  up  against  the  separation 
from  Mr.  Peggotty  and  Mrs.  Gummidge,  but  my  agony  of  mind 
at  leaving  Little  Em'ly  was  piercing. 

The  door  opened  and  I  looked  half  laughing  and  half  crying 
or  my  mother.     It  was  not  she,  but  a  strange  servant. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  17 

"  Why,  Peggotty,"  I  said,  ruefnlly.    "  Isn't  she  come  home?*' 

*'  Yes,  yes.  Master  Davy,"  said  Peggotty.  "  She's  come  home. 
Wait  a  bit,  Master  Davy,  and  I'll — I'll  tell  you  something. 
Master  Davy,  what  do  you  think  ?     You  have  got  a  pa !  " 

Peggotty  gave  a  gasp,  as  if  she  were  swallowing  something  that 
was  very  hard,  and,  putting  out  her  hand,  said: 

"  Come  and  see  him — " 

"  I  don't  want  to  see  him." 

**  And  your  mamma,"  said  Peggotty. 

I  ceased  to  draw  back,  and  we  went  straight  to  the  best  parlor, 
where  she  left  me.  On  one  side  of  the  fire  sat  my  mother;  on 
the  other,  Mr.  Murdstone.  My  mother  dropped  her  work  and 
arose  hurriedly,  but  timidly,  I  thought. 

"Now,  Clara,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Murdstone,  '' recollect,  con- 
trol yourself ;  always  control  yourself!  Davy,  boy,  how  do  you 
do?" 

I  gave  him  my  hand.  After  a  moment  of  suspense,  I  Went 
and  kissed  my  mother;  she  kissed  me,  patted  me  gently  on  the 
shoulder,  and  sat  down  again  to  her  work.  I  could  not  look  at 
her,  I  could  not  look  at  him,  I  knew  quite  well  that  he  was  look- 
ing at  us  both.  As  soon  as  I  could  creep  away,  I  crept  up- 
stairs. 

[Bell  taps,  curtains  are  drawn^  and  Reader  retires.] 

Scene  V. — My  First  Orief. 

Davi»  is  discovered  lyin^  on  floor,  weeping  aloud.  In  a  few  minutes 
Peggotty  and  Mrs.  Copperfield  come  running  in. 

Peg.   Here  he  is! 

Mrs.  C.   David,  what's  the  matter  ? 

Davy  [sobbing  and  pulling  loose  from  his  mother].  Noth- 
ing. 

Mrs.  C.  Davy!  Davy,  my  child!  [David  crying  and  push- 
ing his  mother  off.]  This  is  your  doing,  Peggotty,  you  cruel 
thing!     I  have  no  doubt  at  all  about  it.     How  can  you  reconcile 


18  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

it  to  yonr  conscience,  I  wonder,  to  prejudice  my  own  boy  against 
me,  or  against  anybody  who  is  dear  to  me!  \^Velieme7itly .^  What 
do  you  mean  by  it,  Peggotty  ? 

Peg.  \lifting  up  hands  and  eyes].  Lord  forgive  you,  Mrs. 
Copperfield,  and  for  what  you  have  said  this  minute  may  you 
never  be  truly  sorry. 

Mrs.  C.  \turingi7ig  hands].  It's  enough  to  distract  me!  In  my 
honeymoon,  too,  when  my  most  inveterate  enemy  might  relent, 
one  would  think,  and  not  envy  me  a  little  peace  of  mind  and 
happiness.  [Trying  to  he  stern.]  David,  you  naughty  boy! 
Peggotty,  you  savage  creature!  Oh,  dear  me!  What  a  trouble- 
some world  this  is,  when  one  has  the  most  right  to  expect  it  to 
be  as  agreeable  as  possible ! 

[Bell  taps.,  curtains  are  draimi.,  and  Reader  continues.  ] 

EEADIi^G. 

I  felt  the  touch  of  a  hand  which  I  knew  was  neither  hers  ncr 
Peggotty's  and  slipped  to  my  feet.  It  was  Mr.  Murdstone's 
hand,  and  he  kept  it  on  my  arm  as  he  said : 

*'  What  is  this  ?  Clara,  my  love,  have  you  forgotten  ?  Firm- 
ness, my  dear  !  " 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Edward,"  said  my  mother.  '*!  meant  to 
be  very  good,  but  I  am  so  uncomfortable." 

He  drew  her  to  him,  whispered  in  her  ear,  and  kissed  her.  I 
knew  as  well,  when  I  saw  my  mother's  head  lean  down  upon  his 
shoulder  and  her  arm  touch  his  neck,  I  knew  as  well  that  he 
could  mold  her  pliant  nature  into  any  form  he  chose,  as  I  know, 
now,  that  he  did  it. 

"  Go  you  below,  my  love,"  said  Mr.  Murdstone.  "  David  and 
I  will  come  down  together. " 

Peggotty,  with  some  uneasy  glances  at  me,  courtesied  herself 
out  of  the  room. 

*'  David,  what  is  that  on  your  face  ?  " 

''  Dirt,"  I  said. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  19 

He  knew  it  was  the  mark  of  tears  as  well  as  I.  But  if  he  had 
asked  the  question  twenty  times,  each  time  with  twenty  blows,  I 
believe  my  baby  heart  would  have  burst  before  I  would  have  told 
him  so. 

*'  Yon  have  a  great  deal  of  intelligence  for  a  little  fellow,"  he 
said,  with  a  grave  smile  that  belonged  to  him.  "  Wash  that  face, 
sir,  and  come  down  with  me." 

"  Clara,  my  dear,"  he  said,  when  I  had  done  his  bidding,  and 
he  walked  me  into  the  parlor  with  his  hand  still  on  my  arm, 
*'you  shall  not  be  made  uncomfortable  any  more,  I  hope.  We 
shall  soon  improve  our  youthful  humors." 

Note.— Up  to  this  point  the  reading  has  all  been  done  by  one 
person.    However,  it  may  be  divided  at  the  discretion  of  the  teacher. 

2.   MISS  MURDSTONE'S  ARRIVAL. 

After  dinner,  when  we  were  sitting  by  the  fire,  and  I  was 
meditating  an  escape  to  Peggotty,  a  coach  drove  up  to  the  garden 
gate.  It  was  Miss  Murdstone  who  was  arrived,  and  a  gloomy, 
looking  lady  she  was;  dark,  like  her  brother,  whom  she  greatly 
resembled  in  face  and  voice.  She  was  brought  into  the  parlor 
with  many  tokens  of  welcome,  and  there  formally  recognized  my 
mother  as  anew  and  near  relation.  As  well  as  I  could  make  out, 
she  had  come  for  good  and  had  no  intention  of  ever  going  again. 
On  the  very  first  morning  after  her  arrival  she  was  up  and  ring- 
ing her  bell  at  cock-crow.  When  my  mother  came  down  to 
breakfast  and  was  going  to  make  the  tea,  Miss  Murdstone  gave 
her  a  kind  of  peck  on  the  cheek,  which  was  her  nearest  approach 
to  a  kiss,  and  said : 

*'  Now,  Clara,  my  dear,  t  am  come  here,  you  know,  to  relieve 
you  of  all  the  trouble  I  can.  You're  much  too  pretty  and 
thoughtless  " — my  mother  seemed  not  to  dislike  this  character — 
**  to  have  any  duties  imposed  upon  you  that  can  be  undertaken 
by  me.  If  you'll  be  so  good  as  to  give  me  your  keys,  my  dear, 
I'll  attend  to  all  this  sort  of  thing  in  future." 


20  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

From  that  time,  Miss  Murdstone  kept  the  keys,  and  my 
mother  had  no  more  to  do  with  them  than  I  had.  One  night 
when  Miss  Murdstone  had  been  developing  certain  household 
plans  to  her  brother,  of  which  he  signified  his  approbation,  my 
mother  suddenly  began  to  cry  and  said  she  thought  she  might 
have  been  consulted. 

"  Clara!"  said  Mr.  Murdstone,  sternly.  "  Clara!  I  wonder  at 
you." 

Going  down  next  morning  rather  earlier  than  usual,  I  paused 
outside  the  parlor  door,  on  hearing  my  mother's  voice.  She  was 
very  earnestly  and  humbly  entreating  Miss  Murdstone's  pardon, 
which  that  lady  granted,  and  a  perfect  reconciliation  took  place. 
I  never  knew  my  mother  afterward  to  give  an  opinion  on  any 
matter,  without  first  appealing  to  Miss  Murdstone. 

3.  MY  LESSONS  AT  HOME. 

There  had  been  some  talk  on  occasions  of  my  going  to  a 
boarding-school.  Mr.  and  Miss  Murdstone  had  originated  it, 
and  my  mother  had,  of  course,  agreed  with  them.  Nothing, 
however,  was  concluded  on  the  subject  yet.  In  the  meantime,  I 
learnt  lessons  at  home.  Shall  I  ever  forget  those  lessons!  They 
were  presided  over  nominally  by  my  mother,  but  really  by  Mr. 
Murdstone  and  his  sister,  who  were  always  present.  Let  me 
remember  how  it  used   to  be  and  bring  one  morning  back  again. 

I  come  into  the  second-best  parlor  after  breakfast,  with  my 
books.  My  mother  is  ready  for  me  at  her  writing-desk,  but  not 
half  so  ready  as  Mr.  Murdstone,  in  his  easy  chair,  or  Miss  Murd- 
stone, sitting  near  my  mother  stringing  steel  beads.  I  hand  the 
first  book  to  my  mother.  I  take  a  last  drowning  look  at  the 
page  as  I  give  it  into  her  hand,  and  start  off  aloud  at  a  racing 
pace  while  I  have  got  it  fresh.  I  trip  over  a  word,  Mr.  Murd- 
stone looks  up.  I  trip  over  another  word.  Miss  Murdstone 
looks  up.      I  redden,  tumble  over  half-a-dozen  words,  and  stop. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  21 

I  think  my  mother  would  show  me  the  book  if  she  dared,  but  she 
does  not  dare,  and  she  says  softly : 

"Oh,  Davy,  Davy!" 

'*  Now,  Clara,"  says  Mr.  Murdstone,  "be  firm  with  the  boy. 
Don't  say  'Oh,  Davy,  Davy!'  That's  childish.  He  knows  his 
lesson,  or  he  does  not  know  it." 

"He  does  not  know  it."  Miss  Murdstone  interposes,  awfully. 

"  I  am  really  afraid  he  does  not,"  says  my  mother. 

The  despairing  way  in  which  my  mother  and  I  look  at  each 
other,  as  I  blunder  on,  is  truly  melancholy.  Bat  the  greatest  effect 
in  these  miserable  lessons  is  when  my  mother  tries  to  give  me  the 
cue  by  the  motion  of  her  lips.  At  that  instant,  Miss  Murdstone, 
who  has  been  lying  in  wait  for  nothing  else  all  along,  says  in  a 
deep,  warning  voice : 

"Clara!" 

My  mother  starts,  colors,  and  smiles  faintly.  Mr.  Murdstone 
comes  out  of  his  chair,  takes  the  book,  throws  it  at  me  or  boxes 
my  ears  with  it,  and  turns  me  out  of  the  room  by  my  shoulders. 

One  morning  when  I  went  into  the  parlor  with  my  books,  I 
found  my  mother  looking  anxious.  Miss  Murdstone  looking  firm, 
and  Mr.  Murdstone  binding  something  round  the  bottom  of  a 
cane. 

"  Now,  David,"  he  said,  "you  must  be  far  more  careful  to-day 
than  usual." 

He  gave  the  cane  a  poise,  and  a  switch;  and  laid  it  down 
beside  him,  with  an  expressive  look,  and  took  up  his 
book.  This  was  a  good  freshener  to  my  presence  of  mind.  I 
felt  the  words  of  my  lesson  slipping  off,  not  one  by  one,  or  line 
by  line,  but  by  the  entire  page.  We  began  badly  and  went  on 
worse.     My  mother  burst  out  crying. 

"  Clara!"  said  Miss  Murdstone,  in  her  warning  voice. 

"  Why,  Jane,  we  can  hardly  expect  Clara  to  bear,  with  perfect 
firmness,  the  worry  and  torment  that  David  has  occasioned  her 
to-day.     That  would  be  stoical.     Clara  is  greatly  strengthened 


22  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

and  improved,  but  we  can  hardly  expect  so  much  from  her. 
David,  you  and  I  will  go  upstairs,  boy, " 

He  walked  me  up  to  my  room,  slowly  and  gravely. 

"Mr.  Murdstone!  Sir!"  I  cried  to  him.  ''Don't.  Pray 
don't  beat  me!  I  have  tried  to  learn,  sir,  but  I  can't  learn  while 
you  and  Miss  Murdstone  are  by.     I  can't  indeed!  " 

"  Can't  you  indeed,  David  ?  "  he  said. 

He  cut  me  heavily  an  instant  afterward,  and  in  the  same 
instant  I  caught  the  hand  with  which  he  held  me,  in  my 
mouth,  between  my  teeth,  and  bit  it  through.  It  sets  my 
teeth  on  edge  to  think  of  it.  He  beat  me  then,  as  if  he 
would  have  beaten  me  to  death.  Above  all  the  noise  we 
made,  I  heard  them  running  up  the  stairs,  and  crying  out. 
I  heard  my  mother  crying  out  and  Peggotty.  Then  he 
was  gone;  and  the  door  was  locked  outside;  and  I  was  lying 
fevered,  and  hot,  and  torn,  and  raging  in  my  puny  way,  upon 
the  floor.  How  well  I  recollect,  when  I  became  quiet,  what  an 
unnatural  stillness  seemed  to  reign  through  the  whole  house. 
How  well  I  remember,  when  my  smart  and  passion  began  to 
cool,  how  wicked  I  began  to  feel ! 

For  the  length  of  five  days  I  was  a  prisoner.  I  saw  no 
one  but  Miss  Murdstone,  when  she  brought  me  something 
to  eat. 

On  the  last  night  of  my  restraint,  I  was  awakened  by  hearing 
my  own  name  spoken  in  a  whisper.  I  groped  my  way  to  the  door, 
and  putting  my  own  lips  to  the  keyhole,  whispered : 

"  Is  that  you,  Peggotty,  dear  ?  " 

*'  Yes,  my  own  precious  Davy,"  she  replied.  "Be  as  soft  as 
a  mouse,  or  the  cat'll  hear  us. " 

"What  is  to  be  done  with  me,  Peggotty,  dear?  Do  yon 
know  ?  " 

"  School.     Near  London,"  was  Peggotty's  answer. 

"When,  Peggotty?" 

"  To-morrow.     You  must  never  forget  me.     And  I'll  taite 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  23 

care  of  yonr  mamma,  Davy.     And  I  won't  leave  her.     And  I'll 
write  to  you,  my  dear." 

"  Thank  you,  dear  Peggotty,"  said  I.  And  we  both  of  us 
kissed  the  keyhole  with  the  greatest  affection.  From  that  night 
there  grew  up  in  my  breast  a  feeling  for  Peggotty  which  I  can 
not  very  well  define.  She  did  not  replace  my  mother;  no  one 
could  do  that;  but  she  came  into  a  vacancy  in  my  heart,  which 
closed  upon  her. 

4.  BARKIS  IS  WILLIN'. 

Miss  Murdstone  was  good  enough  to  take  me  out  to  the  cart, 
and  to  say  on  the  way  that  she  hoped  I  would  repent  before  I 
came  to  a  bad  end ;  and  then  I  got  into  the  cart,  and  the  lazy 
horse  walked  off  with  it.  We  might  have  gone  about  half  a  mile, 
and  my  pocket-handkerchief  was  quite  wet  through,  when  the 
carrier  stopped  short.  Looking  out  to  ascertain  what  for,  I  saw, 
to  my  amazement,  Peggotty  burst  from  a  hedge  and  climb  into 
the  cart.  She  took  me  in  both  her  arms,  and  brought  out  some 
paper  bags  of  cakes,  which  she  crammed  into  my  pockets,  and  a 
purse  which  she  put  into  my  hand.  After  another  squeeze  with 
both  arms,  she  got  down  from  the  cart  and  ran  away,  and  my 
belief  is,  without  a  solitary  button  on  her  gown. 

The  carrier's  name  was  Mr.  Barkis.  I  offered  him  a  cake  as  a 
mark  of  attention. 

'^  Did  she  make  'em,  now  ?"  said  Mr.  Barkis. 

<<  Peggotty,  do  you  mean,  sir  ?  " 

*'  Ah !  "  said  Mr.  Barkis.      *'  Her." 

"  Yes.  She  makes  all  our  pastry,  and  does  all  our 
cooking. " 

'  *  Do  she,  though  ?  "   said  Mr.  Barkis. 

He  made  up  his  mouth  as  if  to  whistle,  but  he  didn't  whistle. 
He  sat  looking  at  the  horse's  ears,  as  if  he  saw  something  new 
there.     By  and  by  he  said  : 

**  No  sweethearts,  I  b'lieve  ?  " 


24  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

**  Sweetmeats,  did  yon  say,  Mr.  Barkis  ?"  For 'I  thought  he 
wanted  something  else  to  eat. 

"Hearts,"  said  Mr.  Barkis.      "  Sweethearts!  " 

*'  Oh,  no.     She  never  had  a  sweetheart." 

''  Didn't  she,  though  ?"  said  Mr.  Barkis. 

Again  he  made  up  his  mouth  to  whistle,  and  again  he  didn't 
whistle,  but  sat  looking  at  the  horse's  ears. 

'*Well.  I'll  tell  you  what,"  said  Mr.  Barkis.  *' P'r'aps  you 
might  be  writin'  to  her  ?  " 

"  I  shall  certainly  write  to  her,"  I  rejoined. 

'*  Well,  if  you  was  writin'  to  her,  p'r'aps  you'd  recollect  to  say 
that  Barkis  was  willin',  would  you  ?  " 

"  That  Barkis  is  willin'  ?     Is  that  all  the  message  ?" 

"Ye-es,"  he  said,  considering.     "  Ye-es.     Barkis  is  willin'." 

*'  But  you  will  be  at  Blnnderstone  again  to-morrow,  Mr. 
Barkis,"  I  said,  "  and  could  give  your  own  message  so  much 
better." 

As  he  repudiated  this  suggestion,  however,  I  readily  under- 
took its  transmission.  While  I  was  waiting  for  the  coach  at 
Yarmouth,  I  procured  a  sheet  of  paper  and  wrote  a  note  to  Peg- 
gotty,  which  ran  thus:  "My  dear  Peggotty:  I  have  come 
here  safe.  Barkis  is  willing.  My  love  to  mamma.  Yours 
affectionately.  P.  S.  He  says  he  particularly  wants  you  to 
know,  Barkis  is  willi7ig.^'' 

5.   (a)  MY  EECEPTION  AT  SCHOOL. 

I  was  sent  to  school  in  holiday  time  as  a  punishment  for  my 
misdoing.  I  gazed  upon  the  schoolroom  as  the  most  forlorn 
and  desolate  place  I  had  ever  seen.  Suddenly  I  came  upon  a 
pasteboard  placard,  beautifully  written,  which  was  lying  on  the 
desk  and  bore  these  words:     "  Talcp,  care  of  him.     He  bites.*' 

I  got  upon  the  desk  immediately,  apprehensive  of  at  least  a 
great  dog  underneath.  But,  though  I  looked  with  anxious  eyes, 
I  could  see  nothing  of  him.     I  was  still  engaged  in  peering 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  25 

about  when  Mr.  Mell,  one  of  the  masters,  came  in  and  asked  me 
what  I  did  np  there. 

**  I  beg  yonr  pardon,  sir,"  says  I,  *'if  yon  please,  I'm  looking 
for  the  dog." 

"Dog?"   says  he.     "What  dog?" 

"Isn't  it  a  dog,  sir?" 

"Isn't  what  a  dog?" 

"  That's  to  be  taken  care  of,  sir;   that  bites." 

"No,  Copperfield,"  says  he,  gravely,  "that's  not  a  dog. 
That's  a  boy.  My  instructions  are,  Copperfield,  to  put  this 
placard  on  your  back.  I  am  sorry  to  make  such  a  beginning 
with  you,  but  I  must  do  it." 

With  that  he  took  me  down  and  tied  the  placard,  which  was 
neatly  constructed  for  the  purpose,  on  my  shoulders  like  a  knap- 
sack ;  and  wherever  I  went,  afterward,  I  had  the  consolation  of 
carrying  it.  What  I  suffered  from  that  placard,  nobody  can  im- 
agine. Whether  it  was  possible  for  people  to  see  or  not,  I  always 
fancied  that  somebody  was  reading  it.  It  was  no  relief  to  turn 
round  and  find  nobody ;  for  wherever  my  back  was,  there  I  im- 
agined somebody  always  to  be. 

[Bell  taps,  curtains  are  draw7i,  Reader  retires.  ] 

Scene  VI. — "  Take  Care  of  Him,  He  Bites.'''' 

David  darts  across  stage  with  a  white  pasteboard  placard  on  his  back, 
bearing  the  inscription  "  Take  Care  of  Him,  He  Bites,"  printed  in  bold, 
black  letters.  He  makes  sudden  turns  as  if  afraid  someone  behind  him 
were  reading  that  shameful  placard. 

[^Bell  taps,  ctcrtains  close  and  Reader  continues.  ] 

Eeadikg. 

5.   (b)  MY  MOTHER'S  DEATH. 

I  pass  over  all  that  happened  at  school,  until  the  anniversary 
of  my  birthday  came  round  in  March.  It  was  after  breakfast, 
and  we  had  been  summoned  in  from  the  playground,  when  Mr. 
Sharp  entered  and  said : 


26  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

*'  David  Copperfield  is  to  go  into  the  parlor." 

I  expected  a  hamper  from  Peggotty,  and  brightened  at  the 
order. 

*'  Don't  hurry,  David,"  said  Mr.  Sharp.  ''  There's  time  enough, 
my  boy,  don't  hurry." 

I  might  have  been  surprised  by  the  feeling  tone  in  which  he 
spoke,  if  I  had  given  it  a  thought,  but  I  gave  it  none  until  after- 
ward. I  hurried  away  to  the  parlor  and  there  I  found  Mrs. 
Creakle  with  an  open  letter  in  her  hand.     But  no  hamper. 

"David  Copperfield,"  said  Mrs.  Creakle,  leading  me  to  a  sofa 
and  sitting  down  beside  me,  "  I  want  to  speak  to  you  very  par- 
ticularly. I  have  something  to  tell  you,  my  child.  You  are  too 
young  to  know  how  the  world  changes  every  day,  and  how  the 
people  in  it  pass  away.     But  we  all  have  to  learn  it,  David." 

I  looked  at  her  earnestly. 

"  When  you  came  away  from  home  at  the  end  of  the  vacation," 
said  Mrs.  Creakle,  "  where  they  all  well?  "  And  after  another 
pause,  "  Was  your  mamma  well  ?  " 

I  trembled  without  distinctly  knowing  why,  and  still  looked  at 
her  earnestly,  making  no  attempt  to  answer. 

*'  She  is  very  dangerously  ill,"  she  added. 

I  knew  all  now. 

"She  is  dead." 

There  was  no  need  to  tell  me  so.  I  had  already  broken  out 
into  a  desolate  cry,  and  felt  an  orphan  in  the  wide  world.  She 
was  very  kind  to  me.  She  kept  me  there  all  day,  and  left  me 
alone  sometimes ;  and  I  cried  and  wore  myself  to  sleep  and  awoke 
and  cried  again.  When  I  could  cry  no  more,  I  began  to  think ; 
and  then  the  oppression  on  my  breast  was  heaviest  and  my  grief 
a  dull  pain  that  there  was  no  ease  for.  If  ever  child  were  stricken 
with  sincere  grief,  I  was.     I  was  to  go  home  next  night. 

When  we  reached  home,  I  was  in  Peggotty's  arms  before  I  got 
to  the  door,  and  she  took  me  into  the  house.  Her  grief  burst 
out  when  she  first  saw  me ;  but  she  controlled  it  soon,  and  spoke 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  27 

in    whispers    and    walked    softly,    as    if    the   dead    conld    be 
disturbed. 

Mr.  Murdstone  took  no  heed  of  me  when  I  went  into  the  par- 
lor where  he  was,  but  sat  by  the  fireside,  weeping  silently  and 
pondering  in  his  elbow-chair.  Miss  Murdstone  gave  me  her  cold 
finger-nails,  and  asked  me,  in  an  iron  whisper,  if  I  had  been 
measured  for  my  mourning. 

I  said:  *'Yes." 

*'  And  your  shirts,"  said  Miss  Murdstone;  "  have  you  brought 
'em  home?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am.     I  have  brought  home  all  my  clothes. " 

This  was  all  the  consolation  that  her  firmness  administered 
to  me. 

We  stand  around  the  grave.  The  day  seems  different  to  me 
from  every  other  day,  and  the  light  not  of  the  same  color — of  a 
sadder  color.  Now  there  is  a  solemn  hush,  and  while  we  stand 
bareheaded  I  hear  the  voice  of  the  clergyman,  sounding  remote 
in  the  open  air,  and  yet  distinct  and  plain,  saying:  "  1  am  the 
Resurrection  and  the  Life,  saith  the  Lord!  "  It  is  over  and  the 
earth  is  filled  in,  and  we  turn  to  come  away.  Before  us  stands 
our  house,  so  pretty  and  unchanged,  so  linked  in  my  mind  with 
what  is  gone,  that  all  my  sorrow  has  been  nothing  to  the  sorrow 
it  calls  forth. 

From  the  moment  of  my  knowing  of  the  death  of  my  mother, 
the  idea  of  her  as  she  had  been  of  late  had  vanished  from  me.  In 
her  death  she  winged  her  way  back  to  her  calm,  untroubled  youth, 
and  canceled  all  the  rest.  The  mother  who  lay  in  the  grave  was 
the  mother  of  my  infancy. 

6.  THEY  WERE  MARRIED. 

The  first  act  of  business  Miss  Murdstone  performed  when  the 
day  of  solemnity  was  over  was  to  give  Peggotty  a  month's 
warning.  As  to  me  or  my  future,  not  a  word  was  said  or  a  step 
taken. 


28  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  Peggotty,"  I  said,  one  evening,  "  Mr.  Mnrdstone  likes  me 
less  than  he  used  to.  He  never  liked  me  mnch,  Peggotty,  but 
he  wonld  rather  not  even  see  me  now,  if  he  can  help  it. " 

'•I'm  a-going,  Davy,  yon  see,  to  my  brother's  for  another 
fortnight's  visit.  Now,  I  have  been  thinking  that  perhaps,  as 
they  don't  want  you  here  at  present,  you  might  be  let  to  go 
along  with  me. " 

If  anything  could  have  given  me  a  sense  of  pleasure  at  that 
time,  it  would  have  been  this  project  of  all  others.  To  be  sure, 
there  was  doubt  of  Miss  Murdstone's  giving  her  consent,  but  even 
that  was  set  at  rest  soon. 

"  The  boy  will  be  idle  there,"  said  Miss  Murdstone,  '*  but  it  is 
of  more  importance  than  anything  else  that  my  brother  should 
not  be  disturbed  or  made  uncomfortable.  I  suppose  I  had  better 
say  yes." 

When  the  term  of  my  visit  was  nearly  expired,  it  was  given 
out  that  Peggotty  and  Mr.  Barkis  were  going  to  make  a  day's 
holiday  together,  and  that  Little  Em'ly  and  I  were  to  accompany 
them.  Peggotty  was  dressed  as  usual  in  her  neat  and  quiet 
mourning,  but  Mr.  Barkis  bloomed  in  a  new  blue  coat.  Away 
we  went,  however,  on  our  holiday  excursion ;  and  the  first  thing 
we  did  was  to  stop  at  a  church,  where  Mr.  Barkis  tied  the  horse 
to  some  rails  and  went  in  with  Peggotty.  Mr.  Barkis  and  Peg- 
gotty were  a  good  while  in  the  church,  but  came  out  at  last,  and 
then  we  drove  away  into  the  country.  As  we  were  going  along, 
Mr.  Barkis  turned  to  me  and  said,  with  a  wink : 

"  What  name  was  it  as  I  wrote  up  in  the  cart  ?  " 

"  Clara  Peggotty,"  I  answered. 

"  What  name  would  it  be  as  I  should  write  up  now  ?" 

"  Clara  Peggotty,  again  ?"  I  suggested. 

"  Clara  Peggotty  Barkis  I'*  he  returned,  and  burst  into  a  roar 
of  laughter  that  shook  the  chaise. 

In  a  word,  they  were  married,  and  had  gone  into  the  church 
for  no  other  purpose. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  39 

7.    IN  THE  SERVICE  OF  MURDSTONE  AND  GRIMBY. 

And  now  I  fell  into  a  state  of  neglect  that  I  can  not  look  back 
upon  without  compassion.  It  seems  wonderful  to  me  that  no- 
body should  have  made  any  sign  in  my  behalf.  But  none  was 
made;  and  I  became,  at  ten  years  old,  a  little  laboring  hind  in 
the  service  of  Murdstone  and  G-rimby,  in  London.  Murdstone 
and  Grimby's  warehouse  was  at  the  water  side.  It  was  a  crazy 
old  house  with  a  wharf  of  its  own,  abutting  on  the  water  when 
the  tide  was  in  and  on  the  mud  when  the  tide  was  out,  and  liter- 
ally overrun  with  rats.  My  working-place  was  established  in  a 
corner  of  the  warehouse.  No  words  can  express  the  secret  agony 
of  my  soul  as  I  sunk  into  companionship  with  the  people  of  this 
warehouse.  Mr.  Murdstone  had  arranged  that  I  should  lodge 
with  one  Mr.  Micawber.  At  the  appointed  time  of  the  evening 
Mr.  Micawber  appeared. 

Arrived  at  his  house  in  Windsor  Terrace  he  presented  me  to 
Mrs.  Micawber,  a  thin  and  faded  lady,  not  at  all  young,  who  was 
sitting  in  the  parlor  with  a  baby  in  her  arms.  This  baby  was  one 
of  the  twins.  There  were  two  other  children.  In  this  house  and 
with  this  family  I  passed  my  leisure  time.  A  curious  equality 
of  friendship  sprung  up  between  me  and  these  people,  notwith- 
standing the  ludicrous  disparity  in  our  years. 

\^Bell  tajJSy  Reader  retires  and  curtains  are  drawn.^ 

Scene  VII. — '^  I  Never  Will  Desert  Mr.  Micawber." 

Mrs.  Micawber  with  the  twins,  one  leaning  against  her  shoulder,  the 
other  lying  in  her  lap;  little  Miss  Micawber  and  Master  Micawber  en- 
gaged with  their  broken  toys ;  David  seated  in  a  straight  chair  listen- 
ing to  Mrs.  Micawber' s  doleful  tale. 

Mrs.  Micawber.  I  never  thought  before  I  was  married,  when 
I  lived  with  papa  and  mamma,  that  I  should  ever  find  it  neces- 
sary to  take  a  lodger.  But  Mr.  Micawber  being  in  difficulties,  all 
considerations  of  private  feeling  must  give  way. 

David.   Yes,  ma'am. 


30  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

Mrs.  M.  Mr.  Micawber's  difficulties  are  almost  overwhelming 
jnst  at  present,  and  whether  it  is  possible  to  bring  him  through 
them,  I  don't  know.  When  I  lived  at  home  with  papa  and 
mamma,  I  really  should  have  hardly  understood  what  the  word 
"lodger"  meant,  in  the  sense  in  which  I  now  employ  it. 

David.   Yes,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  M.  Master  Copperfield,  I  make  no  stranger  of  you,  and 
therefore  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that  Mr.  Micawber's  difficulties 
are  coming  to  a  crisis. 

David.  Yes,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  M.  With  the  exception  of  the  heel  of  a  Dutch  cheese, 
there  is  really  not  a  scrap  of  anything  in  the  larder.  I  was  ac- 
customed to  speak  of  the  larder  when  I  lived  with  papa  and 
mamma,  and  I  use  the  word  almost  unconsciously. 

David.  Are  they  dead,  ma'am  ? 

Mrs.  M.  [changing  the  babies  about  as  if  to  keep  them  quiet]. 
My  mamma  departed  this  life  before  Mr.  Micawber's  difficulties 
commenced,  or  at  least  before  they  became  pressing.  [  ^eepiiig.] 
My  papa  lived  to  bail  Mr.  Micawber  several  times,  and  then  ex- 
pired, regretted  by  a  numerous  circle. 

David.  May  I  ask,  ma'am,  what  you  and  Mr.  Micawber  in- 
tend to  do  ? 

Mrs.  M.  My  family  are  of  opinion  that  Mr.  Micawber 
should  quit  London  and  exert  his  talents  in  the  country.  Mr. 
Micawber  is  a  man  of  great  talent.  Master  Copperfield. 

David.   Oh,  I  am  sure  of  that. 

Mrs.  M.  Of  great  talent.  My  family  are  of  opinion  that,  with 
a  little  interest,  something  might  be  done  for  a  man  of  his 
ability  in  the  Custom  House.  The  influence  of  my  family  being 
local,  it  is  their  wish  that  Mr.  Micawber  should  go  down  to  Plym- 
outh.  They  think  it  indispensable  that  he  should  be  upon  the  spot. 

David.    That  he  may  be  ready  ? 

Mrs.  M.  Exactly.  That  he  may  be  ready  in  case  anything 
turns  up. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  31 

David.   And  do  you  go  too,  ma'am  ? 

Mrs.  M.  [hei^e  she  motions  to  little  Miss  Micawber  to  take  one 
of  the  babies;  the  child  walks  up  and  doion  tuith  the  baby^  and 
plays  with  it  to  keep  it  quiet].  I  never  will  desert  Mr.  Micaw- 
ber. Mr.  Micawber  may  have  concealed  his  difficulties  from  me 
in  the  first  instance,  but  his  sanguine  temper  may  have  led  him 
to  expect  that  he  would  have  overcome  them.  The  pearl  neck- 
lace and  bracelets,  which  I  inherited  from  mamma,  have  been 
disposed  of  for  less  than  their  value ;  and  the  set  of  coral,  which 
was  the  wedding-gift  of  my  papa,  has  been  actually  thrown  away 
for  nothing.  But  I  never  will  desert  >[r.  Micawber  [iveeping]^ 
no,  I  never  will  do  it.  It's  of  no  use  asking  me.  [David  is 
greatly  distressed.]  Mr.  Micawber  has  his  faults.  I  do  not  deny 
that  he  is  improvident.  I  do  not  deny  that  he  has  kept  me  in 
the  dark  as  to  his  resources  and  liabilities,  both,  but  I  never  will 
desert  Mr.  Micawher  [sobbing  betwee7i  words],  I — ne- — ver — will — 
desert — Mr.  Micawber. 

[  Bell  taps,  curtains  close,  Reader  co?itimies.] 

Eeadii^'G. 

I  had  grown  to  be  so  accustomed  to  the  Micawbers,  and  had 
grown  so  intimate  with  them  in  their  distresses,  and  was  so  utterly 
friendless  without  them,  that  the  prospect  of  being  thrown  upon 
some  new  shift  for  a  lodging  and  going  once  more  among 
unknown  people  was  like  being  that  moment  turned  adrift. 
That  there  was  no  hope  of  escape  from  it,  unless  the  escape  was 
my  own  act,  I  knew  quite  well.  I  rarely  heard  from  Miss  Murd- 
stone,  and  never  from  Mr.  Murdstone;  not  the  least  hint  of  my 
ever  being  anything  else  than  the  common  drudge  into  which  I 
was  fast  settling  down. 

The  very  next  day  showed  me  that  Mrs.  Micawber  had  not 
spoken  to  me  without  warrant.     My   resolution  was  now  taken. 

"  My  dear  young  friend,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "I  am  older 
than  you ;  a  man  of  some  experience  in  life,  and — and  of  some 


33  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

experience,  in  short,  in  difficulties.  At  present,  and  until  some- 
thing turns  up  (which  I  am,  I  may  say,  hourly  expecting),  I 
have  nothing  to  bestow  but  advice.  My  advice  is,  never  do  to- 
morrow what  you  can  to-day.  Procrastination  is  the  thief  of 
time.  Collar  him.  My  other  piece  of  advice,  Oopperfield,  you 
know.  Annual  income,  twenty  pounds;  annual  expenditures, 
nineteen  pounds,  ought  and  six ;  result,  happiness.  Annual  in- 
come, twenty  pounds;  annual  expenditures,  twenty  pounds, 
ought  and  six;  result,  misery.  The  blossom  is  blighted,  the  leaf 
is  withered,  the  god  of  day  goes  down  upon  the  dreary  scene, 
and — and,  in  short,  you  are  forever  floored,  as  I  am. " 

I  did  not  fail  to  assure  him  that  I  would  store  these  precepts 
in  my  mind. 

**  Master  Oopperfield,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  *' God  bless  you. 
I  never  can  forget  you." 

**  Oopperfield,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "farewell.  Every  happi- 
ness and  prosperity.  If,  in  the  process  of  revolving  years,  I 
could  persuade  myself  that  my  blighted  destiny  had  been  a  warn- 
ing to  you,  I  should  feel  that  I  had  not  occupied  another  man's 
place  in  existence  altogether  in  vain.  In  case  of  anything  turn- 
ing up  (of  which  I  am  rather  confident),  I  shall  be  extremely 
happy  if  it  should  be  in  my  power  to  improve  your  prospects." 

I  went  to  begin  my  weary  day  at  Murdstone  and  Grimby's, 
but  with  no  intention  of  passing  many  more  weary  days  there. 
No.  1  had  resolved  to  run  away.  To  go  by  some  means  or 
other,  down  into  the  country,  to  the  only  relation  I  had  in  the 
world,  and  tell  my  story  to  my  aunt.  Miss  Betsey  Trotwood. 
[Bell  taps,  curtains  open,  Reader  retires.^ 

Scene   VIII.— '' If  You  Please,  Aunt.'' 

The  furnishings  of  the  Copperfield  home  may  be  used,  with  the  addi- 
tion of  a  lounge  placed  near  the  front  and  a  cabinet  for  medicine  at  the 
back.  Window  at  back  of  stage  is  open.  Miss  Betsey  is  seated  with 
a  book  or  sewing  in  her  hands.  Hearing  a  slight  noise  at  the  door,  she 
looks  round  and  sees  David  entering,  very  ragged  and  travel-stained. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  83 

Miss  Betsey  [with  violent  gestures].  Go  away  I  Go  along! 
No  boys  here ! 

David  [coming  nearer^  with  humility  aiid  despair  in  his 
face\  If  you  please,  ma'am.  [Miss  Betsey  is  startled  by  the 
tote.]     If  yon  please,  aunt!     [Extending  both  hands.] 

Miss  B.   Eh !     [In  amazement.  ] 

David  [coming  very  near].  If  you  please,  aunt,,  I  am  your 
nephew! 

Miss  B.  Oh,  Lord!  [Throwing  up  hands  and  sitting  flat 
down  upon  floor.] 

David.  I  am  David  Copperfield,  of  Blunderstone.  I  have 
been  very  unhappy  since  my  mother  died.  I  have  been  slighted 
and  taught  nothing,  and  put  to  work  not  fit  for  me.  [Crying.] 
It  made  me  run  away  to  you.  I  was  robbed  at  first  setting  out, 
and  have  walked  all  the  way,  and  have  never  slept  in  a  bed  since 
I  began  the  journey.  [Miss  Betsey  sits  and  stares  tvhile  he  tells 
his  story.  Touched  by  his  tears,  she  gets  up  in  haste^  pulls  him 
to  lounge,  and  makes  him  lie  down.  She  stands  a  little  way  off 
looking  at  him.] 

Miss  B.  Mercy  on  us !  Mercy  on  us !  [After  a  little  she 
rings  bell  and  Janet  appears.  ]  Janet,  bring  me  some  camphor 
and  some  brandy,  quick !  [Jan^et  obeys,  getting  bottles  from 
cabinet;  then  she  brings  water,  spoon,  glass,  etc.  He  is  made  to 
drink  the  brandy,  and  is  vigorously  rubbed  with  camphor.] 
Land  o'  mercy!  Janet,  get  a  blanket!  [Janet  returns  luith 
blanket  and  both  tuck  it  snugly  around  him.  Miss  Betsey /r^Z^s 
despairingly  into  a  chair.]  Janet,  heat  the  bath!  [Janet  ^065 
out  and  returns  luith  basin  of  luater  and  toivels  and  proceeds  to 
bathe  his  face  and  hands.  Meamvhile,  Miss  Betsey  exclaims:] 
Mercy  on  us !  Mercy  on  us !  [Suddeiily  she  looks  toivard  open 
windotu,  her  ha7ids  raised  in  horror.]  Janet!  Donkeys!  [Janet 
rushes  for  broom  and  violently  thrusts  it  out  of  luindow.  She 
then  goes  back  to  David,  but  Miss  Betsey  lingers  at  wi7idow, 
looks  out  in  every   direction^  and  shakes  flst  at  an  iinaginary 


84  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

doiihey.  Then  she  leaves  luindow,  stands  hehi7id  David's  couch^ 
and  looks  at  him,  saying ;]  Poor  fellow !  Pretty  fellow !  [She 
goes  bach  to  chair.]  Mercy  upon  us!  [David  is  asleep  ivhile 
Janet  lathes  his  forehead.  Miss  Betsey  screams.]  Janet! 
Donkeys !  [Janet  Ira^idishes  broom  and  Miss  Betsey  goes  to 
luindow  to  assure  herself  that  the  enemy  is  out  of  sight.  Janet 
removes  hath.,  and  Miss  Betsey  walks  up  and  doivn,  soliloqui- 
zing. ]  Whatever  possessed  that  poor  unfortunate  baby  that  she 
must  go  and  get  married  again,  I  can't  conceive !  And  then  goes 
and  marries  a  murderer — or  a  man  with  a  name  like  it — and 
stands  in  the  child's  light !  And  the  natural  consequence  is,  as 
anybody  but  a  baby  might  have  foreseen,  that  he  prowls  and 
wanders.  [Looking  down  upon  him.]  He's  as  like  Cain  before 
he  was  grown  up  as  he  can  be.  And  then  there's  that  woman 
with  the  Pagan  name,  that  Peggotty,  she  goes  and  gets  married 
next.  Because  she  has  not  seen  enough  of  the  evil  attending  such 
things,  she  goes  and  gets  married  next,  as  the  child  relates. 
[David  awakes  on  hearing  Peggotty's  name.]  I  only  hope  that 
her  husband  is  one  of  those  poker  husbands  who  abound  in  the 
newspapers,  and  that  he  will  beat  her  well  with  one. 

David  [sitting  up].  No,  aunt,  Peggotty  was  the  best,  the 
truest,  the  most  faithful,  the  most  devoted,  the  most  self-sacri- 
ficing friend  and  servant  in  the  world.  She  always  loved  me 
dearly  and  she  always  loved  my  mother  dearly.  [Cryi^ig.]  She 
held  my  dying  mother's  head  upon  her  arm. 

Miss  B.   Well,  well !     The  child  is  right  to  stand  by  those  who 

have  stood  b^/  him.     Janet !     Donkeys !     [Janet  wields  hroom 

again.] 

[Bell  taps,  curtains  close,  and  Reader  comes  on.] 

Reading. 

8.  MY  SCHOOL-DAYS  AT  CANTERBUEY. 

I  was  now  Trotwood  Copperfield.  I  began  my  new  life  with 
a  new  name  and  with  everything  new  about  me. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  86 

**  Trot,"  said  my  aunt,  one  evening,  '*  we  must  not  forget  your 
education." 

This  was  my  only  subject  of  anxiety,  and  I  felt  quite  delighted 
by  her  referring  to  it. 

*' Should  you  like  to  go  to  school  at  Canterbury  ?"  said  my 
aunt. 

I  replied  that  I  should  like  it  very  much,  as  it  was  so  near 
her. 

**  Good,"  said  my  aunt.  *' Should  you  like  to  go  to-mor- 
row?" 

Being  already  no  stranger  to  the  general  rapidity  of  my  aunt's 
evolutions,  I  was  not  surprised  by  the  suddenness  of  the  pro- 
posal, and  said,  "Yes." 

"  Good !"  said  my  aunt  again.  *' Janet,  hire  the  gray  pony 
and  chaise  to-morrow  morning  at  ten  o'clock,  and  pack  up  Mas- 
ter Trotwood's  clothes  to-night. " 

She  took  me  over  to  Canterbury  and  left  me  in  charge  of  Mr. 
Wickfield,  who  had  a  big,  old-fashioned  house,  kept  by  his  little 
daughter  Agnes,  about  my  own  age.  My  aunt  was  as  happy  as  I 
was  in  the  arrangement  made  for  me.  Next  morning  I  entered 
on  school-life  again. 

My  school-days  I  The  silent  gliding  on  of  my  existence  from 
childhood  up  to  youth ! 

I  am  not  the  last  boy  in  the  school.  I  have  risen,  in  a  few 
months,  over  several  heads.  But  the  first  boy  seems  to  me  a 
mighty  creature,  dwelling  afar  (•ff,  whose  giddy  height  is  un- 
attainable. Agnes  says  "No,"  but  I  say  "  Yes,"  and  tell  herbhe 
little  thinks  what  stores  of  knowledge  have  been  mastered  by  the 
wonderful  being  at  whose  place  she  thinks  I,  even  I,  may  arrive 
in  time.  Agnes  is  a  sister  to  me  and  condoles  with  me  and  reads 
to  me,  and  makes  the  time  light  and  happy.  Agnes  has  my 
confidence  completely,  always ;  I  tell  her  all  my  grievances. 

Time  has  stolen  on  unobserved.  I  am  the  head  boy,  now ;  and 
look  down  on  the  line  of  boys  below  me  with  a  condescending  in- 


36  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

^  terest  in  sach  of  them  as  bring  to  my  mind  the  boy  I  was  myself 
when  I  first  came  there.  That  little  fellow  seems  to  be  no  part 
of  me.  I  remember  him  as  something  left  behind  upon  the  road  of 
life,  as  something  I  have  passed  rather  than  have  actually  been, 
and  almost  think  of  him  as  of  someone  else. 

And  the  little  girl  I  saw  on  the  first  day  at  Mr.  Wickfield's, 
where  is  she  ?  Gone  also,  Agnes,  my  sweet  sister,  as  I  call  her 
in  my  thoughts,  my  counselor  and  friend,  the  better  angel  of  the 
lives  of  all  who  come  within  her  calm,  good,  self-denying  influ- 
ence, is  quite  a  woman. 

What  other  changes  have  come  over  me  besides  the  changes  in 
my  growth  and  looks,  and  in  the  knowledge  I  have  garnered  all 
this  while  ?  I  wear  a  gold  watch  and  chain,  and  a  ring  upon  my 
little  finger,  and  a  long-tailed  coat.  Am  I  in  love  ?  I  am. 
I  worship  the  eldest  Miss  Larkins. 

"  Trotwood,"  said  Agnes,  one  day  after  dinner,  "  who  do  you 
think  is  going  to  be  married  to-morrow  ?  Someone  you  ad- 
mire." 

"  Not  you,  I  suppose,  Agnes?" 

"  Not  me.     The  eldest  Miss  Larkins!  " 

I  am  terribly  dejected  for  about  a  week  or  two.  I  take  off  my 
ring,  I  wear  my  worst  clothes,  and  I  frequently  lament  over  the 
late  Miss  Larkins's  faded  flower. 

I  am  doubtful  whether  I  was  at  heart  glad  or  sorry  when  my 
school-days  drew  to  an  end.  I  had  been  very  happy  there,  and  I 
was  eminent  and  distinguished  in  that  little  world.  For  these 
reasons  I  was  sorry  to  go;  but  for  other  reasons  I  was  glad. 
Misty  ideas  of  being  a  young  man  at  my  own  disposal,  of  the  im- 
portance attaching  to  a  young  man  at  his  own  disposal,  of  the 
wonderful  things  to  be  seen  and  done  by  that  magnificent  animal, 
and  the  wonderful  effects  he  could  not  fail  to  make  upon  society, 
lured  me  away. 

My  aunt  and  I  had  held  many  grave  deliberations  on  the  call- 
ing to  which  I  should  be  devoted.     For  a  year  or  more  I  had  en- 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  87 

deavored  to  find  a  satisfactory  answer  to  her  often  repeated  ques- 
tion what  I  should  like  to  be. 

"  Well,  Trot,"  she  began  one  day,  ''  what  do  you  think  of  the 
proctor  plan?     Or  have  you  not  begun  to  think  about  it  yet?" 

*'  I  have  thought  a  good  deal  about  it,  my  dear  aunt,  and  Hike 
it  very  much  indeed.     I  like  it  exceedingly." 

*'  Come!  "  said  my  aunt.  *'  That's  cheering.  We'll  go  to  the 
Commons  after  breakfast  to-morrow." 

At  about  midday,  we  set  off  for  the  offices  of  Messrs.  Spenlow 
and  Jorkins  in  Doctors'  Commons.  It  was  settled  that  I  should 
begin  my  month's  probation  as  soon  as  I  pleased. 

9.   DORA  AND  I  WERE  ENGAGED. 

On  the  day  when  I  was  articled,  no  festivity  took  place  beyond 
my  having  sandwiches  and  sherry  in  the  office  for  the  clerks  and 
going  alone  to  the  theatre  at  night. 

Mr.  Spenlow,  in  a  week  or  two,  said  that  if  I  would  do  him  the 
favor  to  come  down  next  Saturday  and  stay  till  Monday,  he  would 
be  exceedingly  happy.  Of  course,  I  said  I  ivould  do  him  the  favor ; 
and  he  was  to  drive  me  down  in  his  phaeton  and  to  bring  me  back. 
The  phaeton  was  a  very  handsome  affair ;  the  horses  arched  their 
necks  and  lifted  their  legs  as  if  they  knew  they  belonged  to  Doc- 
tors' Commons.  It  was  very  pleasant  going  down,  and  Mr.  Spen- 
low gave  some  hints  in  reference  to  my  profession.  There  was  a 
lovely  garden  to  Mr.  Spenlow's  house,  and  it  was  so  beautifully 
kept  that  I  was  quite  enchanted.  We  went  into  the  house, 
which  was  cheerfully  lighted  up,  and  into  a  hall  where  there 
were  all  sorts  of  hats,  caps,  great-coats,  plaids,  gloves,  whips 
and  walking-sticks. 

**  Where  is  Miss  Dora?"  said  Mr.  Spenlow  to  the  servant. 

*'  Dora!  "     I  thought.     "  What  a  beautiful  name!  " 

We  turned  into  a  room  near  at  hand  and  I  heard  a  voice  say, 
*' Mr.  Copperfield,  my  daughter  Dora."  It  was,  no  doubt,  Mr. 
Spenlow's  voice,  but  I  didn't  know  it  and  I  didn't  care  whose  it 


38  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

was.  All  was  over  in  a  moment.  I  had  fnlfilled  my  destiny. 
I  was  a  captive  and  a  slave.  I  loved  Dora  Spenlow  to  distrac- 
tion. She  was  more  than  human  to  me.  She  was  a  fairy,  a 
sylph,  I  don't  know  what  she  was — anything  that  no  one  ever 
saw  and  everything  that  everybody  ever  wanted.  I  was  swallowed 
up  in  an  abyss  of  love  in  an  instant.  I  don't  remember  who  was 
there  except  Dora.  I  have  not  the  least  idea  what  we  had  for 
dinner  besides  Dora.  My  impression  is  that  I  dined  off  Dora 
entirely,  and  sent  away  half-a-dozen  plates  untouched.  I  sat 
next  to  her.  I  talked  to  her.  She  had  the  most  delightful  little 
voice,  the  gayest  little  laugh,  the  pleasantest  and  most  fascina- 
ting little  ways,  that  ever  led  a  lost  youth  into  hopeless  slavery. 

Within  the  first  week  of  my  passion,  I  bought  four  sumptuous 
waistcoats — not  for  myself;  I  had  no  pride  in  them;  for  Dora — 
and  took  to  wearing  straw-colored  kid  gloves  in  the  streets,  and 
laid  the  foundation  of  all  the  corns  I  ever  had.  If  the  boots  I 
wore  at  that  period  could  only  be  produced  and  compared  with 
the  natural  size  of  my  feet,  they  would  show  what  the  state  of 
my  heart  was,  in  a  most  affecting  manner. 

When  Dora's  birthday  arrived,  Mr.  Spenlow  told  me  he  would 
be  glad  if  I  would  come  down  and  join  a  little  picnic  on  the 
occasion.  I  went  out  of  my  senses  immediately.  I  think  I  com- 
mitted every  possible  absurdity,  in  the  way  of  preparation  for 
this  blessed  event.  I  turn  hot  when  T  remember  the  cravat  I 
bought.  My  boots  might  be  placed  in  any  collection  of  instru- 
ments of  torture.  At  six  in  the  morning  I  was  in  Covent  Garden 
buying  a  bouquet  for  Dora. 

[Bell  taps,  curtains  are  drawn,  and  Dora  is  seen  sitting  with  Jip  in 
her  lap  and  holding  a  beautiful  bouquet  of  flowers.  The  stage  is  set  as 
in  preceding  scene  excepting  that  a  pretty  rocker  is  placed  in  front  and 
lounge  is  pushed  into  background.  The  Reader  does  not  retire  this 
time  but  continues  the  story,  while  Dora  gives  it  in  pantomime. 

What  a  spectacle  she  was  that  beaatiful  morning,  in  a  white 
chip  bonnet  and  a  dress  of  celestial  blue! 

'*  Oh,  thank  you,  Mr.  Copperfield!     What  dear  flowers!"  said 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  89 

Dora.  [As  Reader  says  these  ivords^  Dora  holds  flowers  in 
front  of  her,  and  looks  iip  and  smiles  as  if  i7i  thanks  for  the 
flotvers.]  To  see  her  lay  the  flowers  against  her  dimpled  chin 
was  to  lose  all  presence  of  mind  and  power  of  language  in  a  fee- 
ble ecstasy.  [D  OWK  holds  floivers  to  her  face.']  Then  Dora  held 
my  flowers  to  Jip  to  smell.  Then  Jip  growled,  and  wouldn't 
smell  them.  Then  Dora  laughed  and  held  them  a  little  closer 
to  Jip,  to  make  him.  Then  Jip  laid  hold  of  a  bit  of  geranium 
with  his  teeth.  Then  Dora  beat  him  and  pouted  and  said,  **  My 
poor  beautiful  flowers !  "  as  compassionately,  I  thought,  as  if  Jip 
had  laid  hold  of  me.  [  77^6  action  here  is  suggested  by  the  words.  ] 
But  now  Mr.  Spenlow  came  out  of  the  house,  and  Dora  went  to 
him  saying,  "  Look,  papa,  what  beautiful  flowers!"  [Dora 
rises  and  lualhs  toward  the  door.,  holding  outfloiuers.]  And  we 
all  walked  toward  the  carriage,  which  was  getting  ready. 

[Bell  taps,  and  curtains  are  draiun.] 

I  shall  never  have  such  a  ride  again.  I  don't  know  how  long 
we  were  going,  and  to  this  hour  I  know  as  little  where  we  went. 
I  drank  in  every  note  of  her  dear  voice,  and  she  sang  to  me  who 
loved  her,  and  all  the  others  might  applaud  as  much  as  they 
liked,  but  they  had  nothing  to  do  with  it!  I  was  intoxicated 
with  joy.  I  was  happier  than  ever  when  the  party  broke  up  and 
the  other  people  went  their  several  ways. 

When  I  awoke  next  morning  I  was  resolute  to  declare  my  pas- 
sion to  Dora  and  know  my  fate.  Happiness  or  misery  was  now 
the  question.  I  don't  know  how  I  did  it.  I  did  it  in  a  moment. 
I  intercepted  Jip.  I  told  her  how  I  loved  her.  I  told  her  I 
should  die  without  her.  I  told  her  that  I  idolized  and  wor- 
shiped her.  Jip  barked  madly  all  the  time.  If  she  would  like 
me  to  die  for  her,  she  had  but  to  say  the  word  and  I  was  ready. 
Life  without  her  love  was  not  a  thing  to  have  on  any  terms.  I 
couldn't  bear  it,  and  I  wouldn't.  The  more  I  raved,  the  more  Jip 
barked.     Each  of  us,  in  his  own  way,  got  more  mad  every  moment. 


40  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

Well,  well !  Dora  and  I  were  sitting  on  the  sofa  by-and-by, 
qniet  enough,  and  Jip  was  lying  in  her  lap,  winking  peacefully 
at  me.  It  was  off  my  mind.  I  was  in  a  state  of  perfect  rapture. 
Dora  and  I  were  engaged. 

10.     MY  AUNT'S  LOSSES. 

Going  up  to  my  room  one  day,  what  was  my  amazement  to  find, 
of  all  people  upon  earth,  my  aunt  there,  sitting  on  a  quantity  of 
luggage. 

"  My  dear  aunt!  "  cried  I.  **  Why,  what  an  unexpected  pleas- 
ure! Let  me  draw  the  sofa  here,  or  the  easy  chair.  Why  should 
you  be  so  uncomfortable?  " 

**  Thank  you,  Trot,"  replied  my  aunt.  "  I  prefer  to  sit  upon 
my  property.     Trot,  have  you  got  to  be  firm  and  self-reliant?  " 

"  I  hope  so,  aunt." 

**  What  do  you  think?  "  inquired  Miss  Betsey. 

*'  I  think  so,  aunt." 

"  Then  why,  my  love,  why  do  you  think  I  prefer  to  sit  upon 
this  property  of  mine  to-night?  " 

I  shook  my  head  unable  to  guess. 

"  Because,"  said  my  aunt,  "  it's  all  I  have.  Because  I'm  ruined, 
my  dear!  " 

If  the  house  and  every  one  of  us  had  tumbled  out  into  the  river 
together,  I  could  hardly  have  received  a  greater  shock. 

*'  I  am  ruined,  my  dear  Trot.  All  I  have  in  the  world  is  in  this 
room,  except  the  cottage;  and  that  I  have  left  Janet  to  let.  We 
must  meet  reverses  boldly  and  not  suffer  them  to  frighten  us,  my 
dear.  We  must  learn  to  act  the  play  out.  We  must  live  mis- 
fortune down,  Trot." 

How  exceedingly  miserable  I  was  that  night.  I  had  dreams  of 
poverty  in  all  sorts  of  shapes.  Now  I  was  ragged,  wanting  to  sell 
Dora  matches;  now  I  was  hungrily  picking  up  crumbs  that  fell 
from  old  Tiffey's  daily  biscuit;  now  I  was  hopelesly  endeavoring 
to  get  a   license  to  marry  Dora.     When  I  awoke,  or,  I  should 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  41 

rather  say,  when  I  left  off  trying  to  sleep,  I  saw  the  snn  shining 
in  through  the  window.  Dressing  myself  as  quietly  as  I  could,  I 
went  for  a  walk.  I  was  trying  to  familiarize  my  mind  with  the 
worst  and  to  present  to  myself  the  arrangements  we  should  have 
to  make  for  the  future  in  their  sternest  aspect,  when  a  hackney 
chariot  coming  after  me  occasioned  me  to  look  up,  A  fair  hand 
was  stretched  forth  to  me  from  the  window,  and  the  face  I  had 
never  seen  without  a  feeling  of  serenity  and  happiness  was  smi- 
ling on  me. 

"Agnes!  "  I  joyfully  exclaimed.  "  Oh,  my  dear  Agnes,  of  all 
people  in  the  world,  what  a  pleasure  to  see  you!  " 

"  Is  it  indeed?  "  she  said,  in  her  cordial  voice. 

"  I  want  to  talk  to  you  so  much!  It's  such  a  lightening  of  my 
heart  only  to  look  at  yon.  If  I  had  a  conjuror's  cap,  there  is  no 
one  I  should  have  wished  for  but  you!  " 

"  What?  "  returned  Agnes. 

*'  Well!  perhaps  Dora,  first,"  I  admitted,  with  a  blush. 

*'  Certainly,  Dora  first,  I  hope,"  said  Agnes,  laughing. 

"  But  you  next!  "  said  I,     "  Where  are  you  going?  " 

She  was  going  to  see  my  aunt.  My  aunt  had  written.  We 
found  her  alone,  and  began  to  talk  about  our  losses. 

[Bell  taps,  Reader  tuithdraios,  and  curtains  ope?i.] 

Scene  X. — Hoio  It  Hap2)ened. 

Miss  Betsey  is  sitting  in  an  easy  chair  and  Agnes  on  a  low  stool  be- 
side her.  Otherwise  the  stage  may  remain  the  same  as  in  preceding 
scene. 

Miss  B.  Betsey  Trotwood  had  a  certain  property.  It  don't 
matter  how  much ;  enough  to  live  on.  More ;  for  she  had  saved 
a  little,  and  added  to  it.  Betsey  funded  her  property  for  some 
time,  and  then,  by  the  advice  of  her  man  of  business,  laid  it  out 
on  landed  security.  That  did  very  well,  and  returned  very  good 
interest,  till  Betsey  was  paid  off.  I  am  talking  of  Betsey  as  if 
she  was  a  man-of-war.      Well!     Then  Betsey  had  to  look  about 


42  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

her  for  a  new  investment.  She  thought  she  was  wiser  now  than 
her  man  of  business,  who  was  not  such  a  good  man  of  business 
by  this  time  as  he  used  to  be — I  am  alluding  to  your  father,  Agnes 
— and  she  took  it  into  her  head  to  let  it  out  for  herself.  So  she 
took  her  pigs  to  a  foreign  market ;  and  a  very  bad  market  it  turned 
out  to  be.  First,  she  lost  in  the  mining  way ;  and  then,  she  lost 
in  the  diving  way.  The  bank  was  at  the  other  end  of  the  world 
and  tumbled  into  space,  for  what  I  know;  anyhow,  it  fell  to 
pieces,  and  never  will  and  never  can  pay  sixpence;  and  Betsey's 
sixpences  were  all  there.  Least  said,  soonest  mended.  [Miss 
Betsey  has  leen  holding  Agkes's  hand  during  last  of  her  recital, 
and  utters  her  last  sentence  with  a  look  of  triumph.'] 

Agnes.     Dear  Miss  Trotwood,  is  that  all  the  history? 

Miss  B.  I  hope  it's  enough,  child.  If  there  had  been  more 
money  to  lose,  it  wouldn't  have  been  all,  I  dare  say.  Betsey 
would  have  contrived  to  throw  that  after  the  rest  and  make  an- 
other chapter,  I  have  little  doubt.  But  there  was  no  more  money 
and  there's  no  more  story.  [Taking  Agites's  haiid  and  laugh- 
ing.] Is  that  all?  Why,  yes,  that's  all  except  "And  she  lived 
happy  ever  afterward."  Perhaps  I  may  add  that  of  Betsey  yet, 
one  of  these  days. 

[Bell  taps,  curtains  are  drawn  and  Reader  enters.] 

Readii^g. 

11.   THE  COOKERY  BOOK. 

Dora  came  to  the  drawing-room  door  to  meet  me.  I  soon  car- 
ried desolation  into  the  bosom  of  our  joys  by  asking  Dora,  with- 
out the  smallest  preparation,  if  she  could  love  a  beggar  ?  My 
pretty,  little,  startled  Dora !  Her  only  association  with  the  word 
was  a  yellow  face  and  a  nightcap,  or  a  pair  of  crutches,  or  a 
wooden  leg,  or  something  of  that  kind ;  and  she  stared  at  me 
with  the  most  delightful  wonder. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  4S 

*' How  can  you   ask  me  anything  so  foolish!"  pouted  Dora. 
**Love  a  beggar!" 

'*  Dora,  my  own  dearest!"  said  I.      "  I  am  a  beggar!" 

**  How  can  you  be  such  a  silly  thing,  as  to  tell  such  stories.  I'll 
make  Jip  bite  you. " 

"Dora,  my  own  life,  I  am  your  ruined  David!" 

*'  I  declare  I'll  make  Jip  bite  you,  if  you  are  so  ridic- 
ulous." 

But  I  looked  so  serious  that  Dora  left  off  shaking  her  curls 
and  first  looked  scared  and  anxious  and  then  began  to  cry.  That 
was  dreadful.  I  fell  upon  my  knees  before  the  sofa,  imploring 
her  not  to  rend  my  heart;  but  for  some  time  poor  little  Dora  did 
nothing  but  exclaim,  "Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!"  And  "Oh,  she 
was  so  frightened!"  And  "Go  away,  please!  Don't  be  dread- 
ful!" 

"/dreadful!     To  Dora!" 

"  Don't  talk  about  being  poor  and  working  hard !  Oh,  don't, 
don't!" 

"  My  dearest  love,"  said  I,  "  the  crust  well  earned — " 

"  Oh,  yes;  but  I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more  about  crusts!" 
said  Dora.  "And  Jip  must  have  a  mutton-chop  every  day  at 
twelve,  or  he'll  die." 

I  was  charmed  with  her  childish,  winning  way.  I  fondly  ex- 
claimed to  Dora  that  Jip  should  have  his  mutton-chop  with  his 
accustomed  regularity. 

"  My  own!     May  I  mention  something  ?" 

"  Oh,  please  don't  be  practical!     Because  it  frightens  me  so!" 

"If  you  will  sometimes  think,  just  to  encourage  yourself,  that 
you  are  engaged  to  a  poor  man — " 

"  Oh,  don't!  Pray  don't!"  cried  Dora  "  It  is  so  very  dread- 
ful." 

"  My  soul,  not  at  all!"  said  I,  cheerfully.  "  If  you  will  some- 
times think  of  that,  and  look  about  now  and  then  at  your  papa's 
housekeeping,  and  endeavor  to  acquire  a  little  habit  of — accounts, 


44  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

for  instance — it  will  be  so  useful  to  ns  afterward,"  I  went  on. 
' '  And  if  you  would  promise  me  to  read  a  little — a  little  cookery 
book  that  I  would  send  you,  it  would  be  so  excellent  for  both  of 
us.  For  my  path  in  life,  my  Dora,  is  stony  and  rugged  now, 
and  it  rests  with  us  to  smooth  it.  We  must  fight  our  way  on- 
ward.    We  must  be  brave." 

I  was  going  on  at  a  great  rate,  with  a  clenched  hand  and  a 
most  enthusiastic  countenance;  but  it  was  quite  unnecessary  to 
proceed.  I  had  said  enough.  I  thought  I  had  killed  her  this 
time.  I  sprinkled  water  on  her  face .  I  went  down  on  my  knees. 
I  plucked  at  my  hair.  I  denounced  myself  as  a  remorseless  brute 
and  a  ruthless  beast.  I  implored  her  forgiveness.  When  we 
were  quite  composed,  Dora  went  uj^stairs  to  put  some  rose-water 
to  her  eyes,  and  returned  looking  such  a  lovely  little  creature  that 
I  really  doubted  whether  she  ought  to  be  troubled  with  anything 
so  ordinary. 

12.  I  TOOK  AGNES  TO  SEE  DORA. 

I  took  Agnes  to  see  Dora.  I  had  arranged  the  visit  before- 
hand. I  was  in  a  flutter  of  pride  and  anxiety;  pride  in  my  dear 
little  betrothed,  and  anxiety  that  Agnes  should  like  her.  All  the 
way  I  pictured  Dora  to  myself  in  every  one  of  the  pretty  looks  I 
knew  so  well ;  now  making  up  my  mind  that  I  should  like  her  to 
look  exactly  as  she  looked  at  such  a  time,  and  then  doubting, 
whether  I  should  not  prefer  her  looking  as  she  looked  at  such 
another  time,  and  almost  worrying  myself  into  a  fever  about  it. 
I  was  troubled  by  no  doubt  of  her  being  very  pretty,  in  any  case ; 
but  it  fell  out  that  I  had  never  seen  her  look  so  well.  Her  charm- 
ing little  face  was  flushed,  and  had  never  been  so  pretty.  But 
when  we  went  into  the  room  and  it  turned  pale,  she  was  ten 
thousand  times  prettier  yet. 

[Bell  taps^  curtains  open,  and  Reader  continues,  while  Dora 
and  Agjstes  enter  together,  Dora  a  little  in  advance,^ 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  '45 

Sceiie  XL — Their  Meeting. 

Dora  was  afraid  of  Agnes.  [Dora  looks  shy.]  She  had  told 
me  that  she  knew  that  Agnes  was  '*  too  clever."  But  when  she 
saw  her  looking  at  once  so  cheerful  and  so  earnest  and  so 
thoughtful  and  so  good,  she  gave  a  faint  cry  of  pleased  surprise, 
and  just  put  her  affectionate  arms  around  Agnes's  neck  and  laid 
her  innocent  cheek  against  Agnes's  face.  [The  words  suggest  the 
action.] 

I  never  was  so  happy.  I  never  was  so  pleased  as  when  I  saw 
those  two  sit  down  together,  side  by  side  [as  these  words  are  read 
Dora  and  Agn'ES  si7ik  upon  a  settee  near  front  of  stage.,  and  ex- 
press hy  looks  and  actio7is  the  sentiments  uttered  by  the  Reader] ; 
as  when  I  saw  my  little  darling  looking  up  so  naturally  to  those 
cordial  eyes ;  as  when  I  saw  the  tender,  beautiful  regard  which  Agnes 
cast  upon  her.  Agnes's  quiet  interest  in  everything  that  inter- 
ested Dora ;  her  manner  of  making  acquaintance  with  Jip  (who 
responded  instantly) ;  her  modest  grace  and  ease,  eliciting  a  crowd 
of  blushing  little  marks  of  confidence  from  Dora;  seemed  to 
make  our  circle  quite  complete. 

[Reader  retires.] 

Dora.  I  am  so  glad  that  yon  like  me.  I  didn't  think  yon 
would.     I  want  to  be  liked. 

Agnes.  I  am  afraid  that  Trotwood  has  given  me  an  unprom- 
ising character. 

Dora.  Oh,  no!  It  was  all  praise.  He  thinks  so  much  of 
your  opinion  that  I  was  quite  afraid  of  it. 

Agnes.  My  good  opinion  can  not  strengthen  his  attachment 
to  some  people  whom  he  knows ;  it  is  not  worth  their  having. 

Dora,  But  please  let  me  have  it,  if  yon  can.  [Agnes  im- 
prints a  kiss  on  Dora's  cheeky  luhile  Dora  nestles  closer  to  her 
new-found  friend.  ] 

[Bell  taps.,  curtains  are  closed^  and  Reader  advances  and  con- 
tinues. ] 


46  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

Reading. 

We  made  merry  about  Dora's  wanting  to  be  liked,  and  Dora 
said  I  was  a  goose,  and  she  didn't  like  me  at  any  rate,  and  the 
short  evening  flew  away  on  gossamer  wings.  The  time  was  at 
hand  when  the  coach  was  to  call  for  ns.  Dora  laughingly  put 
Jip  through  the  whole  of  his  performances  before  the  coach 
came.  There  was  a  hurried  but  affectionate  parting  between 
Agnes  and  herself ;  and  Dora  was  to  write  to  Agnes  and  Agnes 
was  to  write  to  Dora ;  and  they  had  a  second  parting  at  the  coach 
door,  and  a  third  when  Dora  would  come  running  out  once  more 
to  remind  Agnes  at  the  coach  window  about  writing  and  to  shake 
her  curls  at  me  on  the  box.  Never,  never  had  I  loved  Dora  so 
deeply  and  truly  as  I  loved  her  that  night. 

13.     DORA  AND  I  ARE  MARRIED. 

The  realization  of  my  boyish  day-dreams  is  at  hand.  Yes !  I 
am  going  to  be  married  to  Dora!  I  have  never  seen  my  aunt  in 
such  state.  She  is  dressed  in  lavender-colored  silk,  and  has  a 
white  bonnet  on,  and  is  amazing.  Janet  has  dressed  her  and  is 
there  to  look  at  me.  Peggotty  is  ready  to  go  to  church,  intend- 
ing to  behold  the  ceremony  from  the  gallery.  My  aunt  sits  with 
my  hand  in  hers  all  the  way. 

'*  God  bless  you,  Trot!  My  own  boy  never  could  be  dearer. 
I  think  of  poor  dear  Baby  this  morning." 

*'  So  do  I.     And  of  all  I  owe  to  you,  dear  aunt." 

The  church  is  calm  enough,  I  am  sure;  but  it  might  be  a 
steam-power  loom  in  full  action  for  any  sedative  effect  it  has  on 
me.  The  rest  is  all  a  more  or  less  incoherent  dream.  A  dream 
of  their  coming  in  with  Dora;  of  a  pew- opener  arranging  us,  like 
a  drill  sergeant,  before  the  altar  rails;  of  the  clergyman  and  the 
clerk  appearing ;  of  Agnes  taking  care  of  Dora ;  of  my  aunt  en- 
deavoring to  represent  herself  as  a  model  of  sternness,  with  tears 
rolling  down  her  face ;  of  little  Dora  trembling  very  much  and 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  47 

making  her  responses  in  faint  whispers;  of  our  kneeling  down 
together,  side  by  side;  of  Dora's  trembling  less  and  less,  but 
always  clasping  Agnes  by  the  hand;  of  the  service  being  got 
through,  quietly  and  gravely;  of  our  all  looking  at  each  other  in 
an  April  state  of  smiles  and  tears  when  it  is  over;  of  my  walking 
so  proudly  and  lovingly  down  the  aisle  with  my  sweet  wife  upon 
my  arm,  through  a  mist  of  half -seen  people,  pulpits,  monu- 
ments, pews,  fonts,  organs  and  church  windows,  in  which  there 
fluttered  faint  airs  of  association  with  my  childish  church  at 
home,  so  long  ago;  of  their  whispering,  as  we  pass,  what  a  youth- 
ful couple  we  are  and  what  a  pretty  little  wife  she  is;  of  our 
all  being  so  merry  and  talkative  in  the  carriage  going  back;  of 
Agnes  laughing  gaily  and  of  Dora  being  so  fond  of  Agnes  that 
she  will  not  be  separated  from  her,  but  still  keeps  her  hand ;  of 
the  pair  of  hired  post-horses  being  ready,  and  of  Dora's  going 
away  to  change  her  dress ;  of  Dora's  being  ready ;  of  their  all 
closing  about  Dora  when  at  last  she  begins  to  say  good-bye;  of  my 
darling  being  almost  smothered  among  the  flowers,  and  coming 
out,  laughing  and  crying  both  together,  to  my  jealous  arms;  of 
our  going  arm  and  arm,  and  Dora  stopping  and  looking  back  and 
saying,  "If  I  have  ever  been  cross  and  ungrateful  to  anybody, 
don't  remember  it!"  and  bursting  into  tears. 

We  drive  away  together,  and  I  awake  from  the  dream.  I  be- 
lieve it  at  last.  It  is  my  dear,  dear,  little  wife  beside  me,  whom 
I  love  so  well ! 

14.     OUR  HOUSEKEEPING. 

It  was  a  strange  condition  of  things,  the  honeymoon  being 
over  and  the  bridesmaids  gone  home,  when  I  found  myself  sit- 
ting down  in  my  own  small  house  with  Dora;  quite  thrown  out 
of  employment,  as  I  may  say,  in  respect  of  the  delicious  old  oc- 
cupation of  making  love.  It  seemed  such  an  extraordinary 
thing  to  have  Dora  always  there.  I  doubt  whether  two  young 
birds  could  have  known  less  about  keeping  house  than  I  and  my 


48  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

pretty  Dora  did.  We  had  a  servant,  of  conrse.  But  she  preyed 
upon  our  minds  dreadfully.  We  felt  our  inexperience  and  were 
unable  to  help  ourselves.  We  should  have  been  at  her  mercy,  if 
she  had  any;  but  she  was  a  remorseless  woman  and  had  none. 
She  was  the  cause  of  our  first  little  quarrel. 

"  My  dear  life,"  I  said  one  day  to  Dora,  "  do  you  think  Mary 
Anne  has  any  idea  of  time  ?  " 

*' Why,  Doady?"  inquired  Dora,  looking  up,  innocently, 
from  her  drawing. 

"My  love,  because  it's  five,  and  we  were  to  have  dined  at  four  !  " 

Dora  glanced  wistfully  at  the  clock,  and  hinted  that  she 
thought  it  was  too  fast. 

"On  the  contrary,  my  love,"  said  I,  referring  to  my  watch, 
"  it's  a  few  minutes  too  slow.  Don't  you  think,  my  dear,  it 
would  be  better  for  you  to  remonstrate  with  Mary  Anne?" 

"Oh,  no,  please  !  I  couldn't,  Doady  !"  said  Dora. 

"  Why  not,  my  love  ?"  I  gently  asked. 

"Oh,  because  I  am  such  a  little  goose,"  said  Dora,  *'  and  she 
knows  I  am  !  " 

"  But,  my  love,"  said  I. 

' '  No,  no  !  please  !  "  cried  Dora.  ' '  Don't  be  a  naughty  Blue- 
Beard  !    Don't  be  so  serious  !  " 

"  My  precious  wife,  we  must  be  serious  sometimes.  You  know 
it  is  not  exactly  comfortable  to  have  to  go  without  one's  dinner. 
Now,  is  it?" 

"  N-n-no,"  replied  Dora,  faintly. 

"  You  must  remember  that  I  was  obliged  to  go  out  yesterday 
when  dinner  was  half  over,  and  that  the  day  before  I  was  made  quite 
unwell  by  being  obliged  to  eat  underdone  veal  in  a  hurry ;  to-day, 
I  don't  dine  at  all,  and  I  am  afraid  to  say  how  long  we  waited 
for  breakfast — and  then  the  water  didn't  boil.  I  don't  mean  to 
reproach  you,  my  dear,  but  this  is  not  comfortable." 

"  Oh,  you  cruel,  cruel  boy,  to  say  I  am  a  disagreeable  wife?" 
cried  Dora. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  49 

"  Now,  my  dear  Dora,  you  must  know  that  I  never  said  that!" 

**  You  said  I  wasn't  comfortable  !" 

*'  I  said  the  housekeeping  was  not  comfortable." 

**It's  exactly  the  same  thing  !"  cried  Dora. 

**  I  am  not  blaming  you,  Dora.  We  have  both  a  great  deal  to 
learn.  I  am  only  trying  to  show  you,  my  dear,  that  you  must — 
you  really  must — accustom  yourself  to  look  after  Mary  Anne; 
likewise  to  act  a  little  for  yourself  and  me." 

But  I  had  wounded  Dora's  soft  little  heart  and  she  was  not  to 
be  comforted.  She  was  so  pathetic  in  her  sobbing  and  bewailing, 
that  I  felt  as  if  I  had  said  I  don't  know  what  to  hurt  her.  I  was 
obliged  to  hurry  away;  I  was  kept  out  late;  and  I  felt  all  night 
such  pangs  of  remorse  as  made  me  miserable.  I  had  the  con- 
science of  an  assassin,  and  was  haunted  by  a  vague  sense  of 
enormous  wickedness. 

I  had  been  married,  I  suppose,  about  a  year  and  a  half.  After 
several  varieties  of  experiment,  we  had  given  up  the  housekeep- 
ing as  a  bad  job.  The  house  kept  itself,  and  we  kept  a  page. 
The  principal  function  of  this  retainer  was  to  quarrel  with  the 
cook.  This  unlucky  page  was  a  source  of  continual  trouble  to 
me.  He  stole  Dora's  watch,  which,  like  everything  else  belong- 
ing to  ns,  had  no  particular  place  of  its  own.  All  this  led  me 
into  some  serious  reflections  and  presented  our  mistakes  in  a  new 
aspect,  as  I  could  not  help  communicating  to  Dora  one  evening, 
in  spite  of  my  tenderness  for  her. 

*'  My  love,"  said  I,  "it  is  very  painful  to  me  to  think  that  our 
want  of  system  and  management  involves  not  only  ourselves  but 
other  people." 

*'  You  have  been  silent  for  a  long  time,  and  now  you  are  going 
to  be  cross  !  "  said  Dora. 

"  No,  my  dear,  indeed  !  Let  me  explain  to  you  what  I  mean." 

"  I  think  I  don't  want  to  know,"  said  Dora. 

**But  I  want  you  to  know,  my  love.     Put  Jip  down." 

Dora  put  his  nose  to  mine  and  said  "  Boh  !  "  to  drive  my  seri- 


50  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

oasness  away,  but,  not  succeeding,  ordered  him  into  his  pagoda. 

"  The  fact  is,  my  dear,"  I  began,  "  there  is  contagion  in  us. 
We  infect  everyone  about  us.  I  begin  to  be  afraid  that  the  fault 
is  not  entirely  on  one  side,  but  that  these  people  all  turn  out  ill 
because  we  don't  turn  out  well  ourselves." 

"  Oh,  what  an  accusation,  to  say  that  you  ever  saw  me  take 
gold  watches  !     Oh  ! " 

*'  My  dearest,"  I  remonstrated,  *'  don't  talk  preposterous  non- 
sense.    Who  has  made  the  least  allusion  to  gold  watches  ?  " 

"  You  did,  you  know  you  did.  You  said  I  hadn't  turned  out 
well,  and  compared  me  to  him." 

"To  whom?"  I  asked. 

*'To  the  page;  oh,  you  cruel  fellow,  to  compare  your  affec- 
tionate wife  to  a  transported  page  ! " 

"  Now,  Dora,  my  love  ;  this  is  not  only  very  ridiculous  of  yon, 
but  very  wrong.     In  the  first  place,  it's  not  true. " 

*'  You  always  said  he  was  a  story-teller,"  sobbed  Dora,  "and 
now  you  say  the  same  of  me  !  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  !  What  shall 
I  do!" 

So  ended  my  last  attempt  to  make  any  change  in  Dora.  It 
remained  for  me  to  adapt  myself  to  my  child-wife ;  to  share  with 
her  what  1  could  and  be  happy ;  to  bear  on  my  own  shoulders 
what  I  must  and  be  happy  still. 

15.     MY  CHILD-WIFE  IS  DEAD. 

But  as  the  year  wore  on,  Dora  was  not  strong.  I  do  not  know 
how  long  she  had  been  ill.  I  was  so  used  to  it  in  feeling  that  I 
could  not  count  the  time.  They  had  left  off  telling  me  to  "  wait 
a  few  days  more."  I  had  begun  to  fear  remotely  that  the  day 
might  never  shine,  when  I  should  see  my  child -wife  running  in 
the  sunlight  with  her  old  friend  Jip.  He  was,  as  it  were,  sud- 
denly grown  very  old.  It  might  be  that  he  missed  in  his  mis- 
tress something  that  enlivened  him  and  made  him  younger. 

Dora  lay  smiling  on  us,  and  was  beautiful,  and  uttered  no 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  51 

hasty  or  complaining  word.  She  said  that  we  were  very  good  to 
her;  that  her  dear,  old,  careful  boy  was  tiring  himself  out,  she 
knew;  that  my  aunt  had  no  sleep,  yet  was  always  wakeful,  active 
and  kind. 

\_Bell  tapSf  reader  retires^  curtains  open. 

Scene  XII. — Dora  and  My  Aunt. 

Stage  set  as  in  preceding  scene,  Dora  lying  on  her  couch  playing 
with  Jip,  and  Miss  Betsey  sitting  in  a  chair  by  her  side,  sewing. 

Dora.  When  I  can  run  about  again,  as  I  used  to  do,  aunt,  I 
shall  make  Jip  race.     He  is  getting  quite  slow  and  lazy. 

Miss  B.  I  suspect,  my  dear,  that  he  had  a  worse  disorder 
than  that.     Age,  Dora. 

Dora.  Do  you  think  he  is  old  ?  [  Voice  lueak  and  manner 
languid  from  illness.]  Oh,  how  strange  it  seems  that  Jip 
should  be  old  ! 

Miss  B.  It  is  a  complaint  we  are  all  liable  to,  little  one,  as 
we  get  on  in  life.  I  don't  feel  more  free  from  it  than  I  used  to 
be,  I  assure  you. 

Dora.     But  Jip  !     Even  little  Jip.     Oh!  poor  fellow! 

Miss  B.  I  dare  say  he'll  last  a  long  time  yet.  Blossom.  He 
must  have  a  piece  of  flannel  in  his  house  this  winter,  and  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  he  came  out  quite  fresh  again,  with  the 
flowers,  in  the  spring.  Bless  the  little  dog  !  If  he  had  as  many 
lives  as  a  cat,  and  was  on  the  point  of  losing  'em  all,  he'd  bark 
at  me  with  his  last  breath,  I  believe  ! 

Dora.     Even  little  Jip !     Oh !  poor  fellow ! 

Miss  B.  His  lungs  are  good  enough  and  his  dislikes  are  not 
at  all  feeble.  He  has  a  good  many  years  before  him,  no  doubt. 
But  if  you  want  a  dog  to  race  with,  Little  Blossom,  he  has  lived 
too  well  for  that,  and  I'll  give  you  one. 

Dora.     Thank  you,  aunt.     But  don't,  please. 

Miss  B.     No  ! 


52  .  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

Dora.  I  couldn't  have  any  other  dog  but  Jip.  It  would  be 
so  unkind  to  Jip.  Besides,  I  couldn't  be  such  friends  with  any 
other  dog  but  Jip,  because  he  wouldn't  have  known  me  before  I 
was  married,  and  wouldn't  have  barked  at  Doady  when  he  first 
came  to  our  house.  I  couldn't  care  for  any  other  dog  but  Jip,  I 
am  afraid,  aunt. 

Miss  B.     To  be  sure.     You  are  right. 

Dora.     You  are  not  offended,  are  you  ? 

Miss  B.  [caressing  Dora].  Why,  what  a  sensitive  pet  it  is! 
To  think  that  I  could  be  offended ! 

Dora.  No — no — I  didn't  really  think  so,  but  I  am  a  little 
tired,  and  it  made  me  silly  for  a  moment.  I  am  always  a  silly 
little  thing,  you  know,  but  it  made  me  more  silly  to  talk  about 
Jip.  He  has  known  me  in  all  that  has  happened  to  me,  haven't 
you,  Jip  ?  And  I  couldn't  bear  to  slight  him  because  he  was  a 
little  altered,  could  I,  Jip  ?  You  are  not  so  old,  Jip,  are  you, 
that  you'll  leave  your  mistress  yet  ?  We  may  keep  each  other 
company  a  little  longer. 

[Bell  taps,  ctirtains  close,  and  Reader  continues.^ 
Eeadin^g. 

N. 

It  is  evening,  and  I  sit  by  the  bed.  We  have  been  silent,  and 
there  is  a  smile  on  her  face. 

"Doady!" 

"  My  dear  Dora!" 

"You  are  very  lonely  when  you  go  downstairs,  now?"  Dora 
whispers,  with  her  arm  about  my  neck. 

"  How  can  I  be  otherwise,  my  own  love,  when  I  see  your  empty 
chair?" 

"My  empty  chair!  And  you  really  miss  me,  Doady?  Even 
poor,  giddy,  stupid  me  ?" 

"  My  heart,  who  is  there  upon  earth  that  I  could  miss  so 
much  ?" 

"  Oh,  husband!     I  am  so  glad,  yet  so  sorry!" 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  53 

It  is  night,  and  I  am  with  her  still.  Agnes  has  arrived ;  has 
been  among  us  for  a  whole  day  and  an  evening.  She,  my  aunt 
and  I  have  sat  with  Dora  since  the  morning,  all  together.  We 
have  not  talked  much,  but  Dora  has  been  perfectly  contented 
and  cheerful.      We  are  now  alone. 

'*  I  am  going  to  speak  to  you,  Doady.  I  am  going  to  say 
something  that  I  have  often  thought  of  saying  lately.  I  don't 
know  what  you  will  think ;  perhaps  you  have  often  thought  the 
same.  Doady,  dear,  I  am  afraid  I  was  too  young.  I  was  such  a 
silly  little  creature !  I  have  begun  to  think  I  was  not  fit  to  be  a 
wife." 

'*  We  have  been  very  happy,  my  sweet  Dora." 

"Is  it  lonely  downstairs,  Doady  ?" 

"Very!     Very!" 

"  Don't  cry !     Is  my  chair  there  ?" 

"  In  its  old  place." 

"Oh,  how  my  poor  boy  cries!  Hush,  hush!  I  want  to  speak 
to  Agnes.  When  you  go  downstairs  tell  Agnes  so,  and  send  her 
up  to  me ;  and  while  I  speak  to  her,  let  no  one  come — not  even 
aunt.  I  want  to  speak  to  Agnes  by  herself.  I  want  to  speak  to 
Agnes  quite  alone." 

Agnes  is  downstairs  when  I  go  into  the  parlor,  and  I  give  her 
the  message.  She  disappears,  leaving  me  alone  with  Jip.  How 
the  time  wears  I  know  not;  until  I  am  recalled  by  my  child- 
wife's  old  companion.  More  restless  than  he  was,  he  crawls  out 
of  his  house,  and  looks  at  me,  and  wanders  to  the  door,  and 
whines  to  go  upstairs. 

"  Not  to-night,  Jip!     Not  to-night!" 

He  comes  very  slowly  back  to  me,  licks  my  hand,  and  lifts  his 
dim  eyes  to  my  face. 

"  Oh,  Jip!     It  may  be  never  again!" 

He  lies  down  at  my  feet,  stretches  himself  out  as  if  to  sleep, 
and  with  a  plaintive  cry,  is  dead. 

"0  Agnes!     Look,  look  here!" 


54  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

That  face  so  fall  of  pity  and  of  grief,  that  rain  of  tears ;  that 
awful,  mute  appeal  to  me,  that  solemn  hand  upraised  toward 
heaven ! 

''Agnes?" 

It  is  over.  Darkness  comes  before  my  eyes,  and,  for  a  time, 
all  things  are  blotted  out  of  my  remembrance. 

16.     AGNES. 

I  went  away  from  England,  not  knowing,  even  then,  how 
great  the  shock  was  that  I  had  to  bear.  I  left  all  who  were  dear 
to  me  and  went  away,  and  believed  that  I  had  borne  it  and  it  was 
past.  As  a  man  on  a  field  of  battle  will  receive  a  mortal  hurt 
and  scarcely  know  that  he  is  struck,  so  I,  when  I  was  left  alone 
with  my  undisciplined  heart,  had  no  conception  of  the  wound 
with  which  it  had  to  strive. 

The  knowledge  came  upon  me  not  quickly,  but  little  by  little 
and  grain  by  grain.  A  desolate  feeling  with  which  I  went 
abroad  deepened  and  widened  hourly.  At  first,  it  was  a  heavy 
sense  of  loss  and  sorrow,  wherein  I  could  distinguish  little  else. 
By  imperceptible  degrees,  it  became  a  hopeless  consciousness  of 
all  that  I  had  lost — love,  friendship,  interest ;  of  all  that  had  been 
shattered — my  first  trust,  my  first  affection,  the  whole  airy  castle 
of  my  life;  of  all  that  remained — a  ruined  blank  and  waste  lyiug 
wide  around  me,  unbroken,  to  the  dark  horizon. 

From  the  accumulated  sadness  into  which  I  fell,  I  had  at 
length  no  hope  of  ever  issuing  again.  I  roamed  from  place  to 
place,  carrying  my  burden  with  me  everywhere.  I  felt  its  whole 
weight  now  and  I  drooped  beneath  it,  and  I  said  in  my  heart 
that  it  could  never  be  lightened. 

When  this  despondency  was  at  its  worst,  I  believed  that  I 
should  die.  Sometimes  I  thought  that  I  should  like  to  die  at  home, 
and  actually  turned  back  on  my  road  that  I  might  get  there  soon. 
At  other  times,  I  passed  on  farther  away,  from  city  to  city,  seek- 
ing I  knew  not  what  and  trying  to  leave  I  know  not  what  behind. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  55 

For  many  months  I  traveled  with  this  ever-darkening  clond  upon 
my  mind. 

I  was  in  Switzerhind.  I  came,  one  evening,  before  sunset,  down 
into  the  valley  where  I  was  to  rest.  In  the  course  of  my  descent 
to  it,  by  the  winding  track  along  the  mountain-side,  from  which 
I  saw  it  shining  far  below,  I  think  some  long-unwonted  sense  of 
beauty  and  tranquility,  some  softening  influence  awakened  by  its 
peace,  moved  faintly  in  my  breast.  I  remember  pausing  once, 
with  a  kind  of  sorrow  that  was  not  all  oppressive,  not  quite  de- 
spairing. I  remember  almost  hoping  that  some  better  change  was 
possible  within  me.  In  this  serenity,  great  Nature  spoke  to  me, 
and  soothed  me  to  lay  down  my  weary  head  upon  the  grass  and 
weep  as  I  had  not  wept  yet  since  Dora  died. 

I  had  found  a  packet  of  letters  awaiting  me  but  a  few  minutes 
before,  and  had  strolled  out  of  the  village  to  read.  I  opened  it 
and  read  the  writing  of  Agnes.  She  was  happy  and  useful,  that 
was  all  she  told  me  of  herself.  The  rest  referred  to  me.  She 
gave  me  no  advice;  she  urged  no  duty  on  me;  she  only  told  me, 
in  her  own  fervent  manner,  what  her  trust  in  me  was.  She  knew, 
she  said,  how  such  a  nature  as  mine  would  turn  affliction  to  good. 
As  the  endurance  of  my  childish  days  had  done  its  part  to  make 
me  what  I  was,  so  greater  calamities  would  nerve  me  on  to  be  yet 
better  than  I  was.  She  commended  me  to  God,  who  had  taken 
my  innocent  darling  to  His  rest,  and  in  her  sisterly  affection 
cherished  me  always. 

I  put  the  letter  in  my  breast  and  thought  what  had  I  been  an 
hour  ago !  I  wrote  to  her  before  I  slept.  I  told  her  that  I  had 
been  in  sore  need  of  her  help ;  that  without  her  I  was  not,  and  I 
never  had  been,  what  she  thought  me ;  but  that  she  inspired  me 
to  be  that,  and  I  would  try. 

I  did  try.  In  three  months  more,  a  year  would  have  passed 
since  the  beginning  of  my  sorrow.  The  three  months  gone,  I  re- 
solved to  remain  away  from  home  for  some  time  longer;  to  set- 
tle myself  for  the  present  in  Switzerland,  which  was  growing  dear 


56  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

to  me  in  the  remembrance  of  that  evening.  I  can  not  penetrate 
the  mystery  of  my  own  heart,to  know  when  I  began  to  think  that  I 
might  have  set  its  earliest  and  brightest  hopes  on  Agnes.  I  can 
not  say  at  what  stage  of  my  grief  it  first  became  associated  with 
the  reflection  that,  in  my  wayward  boyhood,  I  had  thrown  away 
the  treasure  of  her  love.  Whatever  I  might  have  been  to  her  or 
she  to  me,  if  I  had  been  more  worthy  of  her  long  ago,  I  was  not 
now.  The  time  was  past.  I  had  let  it  go  by  and  had  deservedly 
lost  her.  I  made  no  effort  to  conceal  from  myself  now  that  I 
loved  her,  that  I  was  devoted  to  her ;  but  I  brought  the  assurance 
home  to  myself  that  now  it  was  too  late,  and  that  our  long-sub- 
sisting relation  must  be  undisturbed. 

Three  years  had  elapsed,  when,  at  the  same  hour  of  sunset, 
and  in  the  same  place,  I  stood  on  the  deck  of  the  packet  vessel 
that  brought  me  home.  Three  years !  Long  in  the  aggregate, 
though  short  as  they  went  by.  And  home  was  very  dear  to  me, 
and  Agnes,  too.  But  she  was  not  mine — she  was  never  to  be 
mine.     She  might  have  been,  but  that  was  past! 

The  opening  of  the  little  door  in  the  paneled  wall  made  me 
start  and  turn.  Her  beautiful,  serene  eyes  met  mine  as  she  came 
toward  me.  She  stopped  and  laid  her  hand  upon  her  bosom, 
and  I  caught  her  in  my  arms. 

"  Agnes!  my  dear  girl!     I  have  come  too  suddenly  upon  you." 
•*No,  no!     I  am  so  rejoiced  to  see  you,  Trotwood! " 
''Dear  Agnes,  the   happiness   it  is  to  me  to   see  you   once 
again ! " 

She  was  so  true,  she  was  so  beautiful,  she  was  so  good.  I  owed 
her  so  much  gratitude,  she  was  so  dear  to  me,  that  I  could  find 
no  utterance  in  what  I  felt.  I  tried  to  bless  her,  tried  to  thank 
her,  tried  to  tell  her  what  an  in^uence  she  had  upon  me ;  but  all 
my  efforts  were  in  vain.     My  love  and  joy  were  dumb. 

With  her  own  sweet  tranquility  she  calmed  my  agitation  and 
led  me  back  to  the  time  of  our  parting ;  spoke  to  me  tenderly  of 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD.  57 

Dora's  grave.  With  the  unerring  instinct  of  her  noble  heart, 
she  touched  the  chords  of  my  memory  so  softly  and  harmoniously 
that  not  one  jarred  within  me;  I  could  listen  to  the  sorrowful, 
distant  music,  and  desire  to  shrink  from  nothing  it  awoke.  How 
could  I,  when,  blended  with  it  all,  was  her  dear  self,  the  better 
angel  of  my  life  ? 

"You  remember  when  you  came  down  to  me  incur  little 
room,  pointing  upward,  Agnes?" 

**  Oh,  Trotwood !  "  she  returned,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
*'So  loving,  so  confiding,  and  so  young!     Can  I  ever  forget!  " 

"As  you  were  then,  my  sister,  I  have  often  thought  since,  you 
have  ever  been  to  me.  Ever  pointing  upward,  Agnes;  ever 
leading  me  to  something  better;  ever  directing  me  to  higher 
things. " 

She  only  shook  her  head;  through  her  tears  I  saw  the  same 
quiet  smile. 

"  You  are  thoughtful  to-day,  Trotwood !  " 

"  Agnes,  shall  I  tell  you  what  about?  My  dear  Agnes,  do 
you  doubt  my  being  true  to  you  ?" 

"  No!  "  she  answered,  with  a  look  of  astonishment. 

"  Do  you  doubt  my  being  what  I   always  have   been  to  you  ?" 

"  No!  "  she  answered,  as  before. 

"  You  have  a  secret,"  said  I.      "  Let  me  share  it,  Agnes." 

She  cast  down  her  eyes  and  trembled.  With  an  appealing, 
almost  a  reproachful,  glance,  she  rose  from  the  window,  and 
hurrying  across  the  room  as  if  without  knowing  where,  put  her 
hands  before  her  face,  and  burst  into  such  tears  as  smote  me  to 
the  heart.  And  yet  they  awakened  something  in  me,  bringing 
promise  to  my  heart. 

"Agnes!     Sister!     Dearest!     What  have  I  done  ?" 

*  *  Let  me  go  away,  Trotwood.  I  am  not  myself.  I  will  speak 
to  you  by-and-by — another  time.  I  will  write  to  you.  Don't 
speak  to  me  now.     Don't!  don't!" 

"  Agnes,  I  can  not  bear  to  see  you  so  and  think  that  I  have 


58  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

been  the  cause.  If  you  are  unhappy,  let  me  share  your  unhappi- 
ness.  If  you  are  in  need  of  help  or  counsel,  let  me  try  to  give 
it  to  you.  If  you  have,  indeed,  a  burden  on  your  heart,  let  me 
try  to  lighten  it.  For  whom  do  I  live  now,  Agnes,  if  it  is  not 
for  you  ?" 

*'  Oh,  spare  me!     I  am  not  myself!     Another  time!" 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  Agnes,  tet  us  not  mistake  each  other  after 
all  these  years  and  all  that  has  come  and  gone  with  them!  I 
must  speak  plainly.  If  you  have  any  lingering  thought  that  I 
could  envy  the  happiness  you  will  confer ;  that  I  could  not  resign 
you  to  a  dearer  protector,  of  your  own  choosing ;  that  I  could 
not,  from  my  removed  place,  be  a  contented  witness  of  your  joy, 
dismiss  it,  for  I  don't  deserve  it!" 

She  was  quiet  now.  In  a  little  time  she  turned  her  pale  face 
toward  me  and  said,  in  a  low  voice,  broken  here  and  there,  but 
very  clear: 

"  I  owe  it  to  your  pure  friendship  for  me,  Trotwood,  to  tell 
you,  you  are  mistaken.  I  can  do  no  more.  If  I  have  sometimes, 
in  the  course  of  years,  wanted  help  and  counsel,  they  have  come 
to  me.  If  I  have  sometimes  been  unhappy,  the  feeling  has  passed 
away.  If  I  have  ever  had  a  burden  on  my  heart,  it  has  been 
lightened  for  me.  If  I  have  any  secret,  it  is  no  new  one  and  is 
not  what  you  suppose.  I  can  not  reveal  it  or  divide  it.  It  has 
long  been  mine,  and  must  remain  mine. " 

"Agnes!  Stay!  A  moment!  Dearest  Agnes,  whom  I  so 
respect  and  honor,  whom  I  so  devotedly  love!  When  I  came 
here  to-day,  I  thought  that  nothing  could  have  wrested  this  con- 
fession from  me.  I  thought  I  could  have  kept  it  in  my  bosom 
all  our  lives,  till  we  were  old.  But,  Agnes,  if  I  have,  indeed, 
any  new-born  hope  it  is  that  I  may  call  you  something  more  than 
sister,  widely  different  from  sister." 

Her  tears  fell  fast ;  but  they  were  not  like  those  she  had  lately 
shed,  and  I  saw  my  hope  brightening  in  them. 

*'When  I  loved  Dora — fondly,  Agnes,  as  you  know — even 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 


69 


then  my  love  would  have  been  incomplete  without  your  sympa- 
thy. I  had  it  and  it  was  perfected.  And  when  I  lost  her, 
Agnes,  what  should  I  have  been  without  you  still  ?  I  went  away, 
dear  Agnes,  loving  you.  I  stayed  away,  loving  you.  I  returned 
home,  loving  you !" 

We  walked  that  winter  evening  in  the  fields  together,  and  the 
blessed  calm  within  us  seemed  to  be  partaken  of  by  the  frosty 
air.  The  early  stars  began  to  shine  while  we  were  lingering  on, 
and  looking  up  to  them  we  thanked  our  God  for  having  guided 
us  to  this  tranquility. 

Curtain. 


DEISARTE  SYSTEM  OF  EXPRESSION, 

BY  GENEVIEVE  STEBBINS. 

WITH  DEI^ARTE'S  ADDRESS  BEFORE  THE  PARIS  PHILOTECHNIC  SOCIETY. 

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